


Three Songs from the Sixties

by 7veilsphaedra



Category: Saiyuki Ibun
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-09
Updated: 2013-01-09
Packaged: 2017-11-24 07:00:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 27,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/631705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/7veilsphaedra/pseuds/7veilsphaedra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Saiyuki Ibun characters, with some allusions to the Ants of Heaven from Saiyuki Gaiden and villains from Saiyuki Gensomaden, written to prompt and re-imagined in a 1969, California reincarnation, with a Robert Altman-style of story construction.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Three Songs from the Sixties

**Author's Note:**

> NC17, free love, sex, drugs and rock'n'roll. Naughty language. If you're underaged, you shouldn't be here.
> 
> Thanks so much to whymzycal and rroselavy for the terrific betas. Written for the 2011 Dreamwidth AU giftfic exchange community, 7thnight_smut , for the prompts: Hippies, 1960s, California.

**

THREE SONGS FROM THE SIXTIES:  
I. Minute to the Hour

**

****

 

****

**Toudai** | 

Tony Cosentino  
  
---|---  
**Original character** | 

Mickey  
  
**Houmei** | 

Hanael or Kailasa Ka Kha Rinpoche  
  
**Original characters** | 

Wahinis in the Corvette Stingray by Muscle Beach  
  
**Original characters** | 

Tony Cosentino’s neighbour, Mrs. Gronstein  
  
**Li Touten** | 

Mrs. Gronstein’s terrier  
  
**Original character** | 

Tony’s Momma, Agnese Cosentino  
  
**Jyouan** | 

Joanne _a.k.a._ Assunta Cosentino  
  
**Original character** | 

Officer Krupnik  
  
**Original character** | 

Tony’s Dad, Pauly Cosentino  
  
**Ganpaku** | 

Denise _a.k.a._ Jodie  
  
**Original character** | 

Officer Lepinsky  
  
**Original characters** | 

Mechanic and towtruck driver at Cayucos Landing  
  
**Abbot Jikoku** | 

Tulka at the Monastery in Rewalsar, Utter Pradesh, India  
  
**Ryuzin** | 

Rafe or Rafael  
  
**Abusive ‘Elephant-eared’ Instructor in Ibun** | 

vandal biker in Golden Gate Park  
  
**Seiran** | 

Serge  
  
**Genkai** | 

Gentry or Gus  
  
**N from Ants of Heaven (the one that looks like Chin Yisou)** | 

Gum-cracking co-owner of head shop  
  
**Gyumaoh** | 

Beefy co-owner of head shop  
  
**Gichou** | 

Chico  
  
**Soujin** | 

Alex, Sandy or ‘Colonel Sanders’  
  
**Doutaku** | 

Tyler  
  
**Shou’un** | 

Leon  
  
**Original characters** | 

Hostess and Cocktail Waitress at _The Cable Car_ Cocktail Bar  
  
 

  
**Friday, 4:59 pm  
**

At 4:59, it hurt to take off the hard hat. The slightest shade felt good while a guy was dangling in that 100-plus convection off West Fifth. The Santa Anas blew back anything cool which might’ve wafted in from the Bay past Dockweiler. Even the Wolfman felt the need to wax lyrical about it: _“Can you dig it, cats? I’ve already poured out enough sweat to fill a kiddie pool. We always knew the City of Angels was the hottest place on Earth, but this is enough to make even a Wolfman how-woooo-owllll!”_

Tony Cosentino mopped his forehead and carefully stowed the sodden hankie in the back pocket of his jeans, not because he was perched on a beam twelve storeys up, but in that roast, steel turned hot enough to pop skin like corn kernels on a griddle.

__

_“So wax up your boards and head on dooooown to Santa Monica to catch some coolin’ waves and hot bikinis, or pour yourself a root beer or a tall glass o’ lemonade. For all you sun-lovin’ cats and kitties, get your groove on for ‘The Lovin’ Spoonful’:_

_“Hot town, summer in the city,  
Back of my neck getting’ dirty and gritty …”_

Down below, gridlock started. Tempers rose in a cacophony of honking horns and curses, hurled all the way up to where he tightened his last bolt.

__

_“All ’round, people looking half dead  
Walkin’ on the sidewalk, hotter than a match head.”_

The clock ticked to 5:00 pm.

That last bolt meant his job was officially finished.

“’Eey, Tony, what’s’a matter, you deaf?” He could barely hear his foreman. Mickey reached over and turned the radio off. “Comin’ with us to Puss’n’Boots tonight? The guys and me, we threw together a little farewell celebration for you.”

“Puss’n’Boots? What am I, five?”

“That new club four blocks east, ya goofball.” Tony already knew that, but Mickey was gonna tell him anyway. “You gotta check out the caged Go-Go girls. I’m tellin’ you, they leave their boots on, but bump right outta their pasties.”

It wasn’t even that the cover and a complimentary house drink cost him more than a week’s salary. Tony shrugged, Italian-style, with his face. “Ma’s arranged a date between me’n’a girl — daughter of one of her classmates.”

“Catholic girl!” Mickey leered.

“Except our moms’ll be there as chaperones. Fun, huh?”

“Get stuffed! You’ll have the rest of your life to act like an old man. Live a little.”

“We’re talkin’ Angela Conforti.” Tony scrunched his face with a hiss and shook his hand as though the hotness burned. This was strictly for Mickey’s benefit. Conforti’s charms, ample as they were, had zippo-zilch-o effect on Tony. Earlier that week, however, the blond guy who hauled baskets of bricks from the crane palettes to the scaffolding had peeled off his shirt — standard practice with the crew when the mercury climbed — and to Tony’s disbelief, a trickle of sweat down the tanned skin of the guy’s back between a pair of well-chiselled shoulders got him more hot and bothered than a kid who’d just discovered Playmate of the Year.

“I gotcha. I gotcha. It’ll be a let-down for the guys, though.” Mickey didn’t look too upset. They probably planned to head out to the club already, and the farewell party was just an excuse to get rowdier and drunker.

Tony felt bad. These guys had helped him up that year from his own stint as a bricklayers’ apprentice. He’d ended in the riveter’s seat vying for top dollar with the arc welders and made a wagonload of benjamins that winter and spring. The second-hand ’64 International was paid for, and he still had enough to put a half-decent down payment on a ranch-style in the Valley — except that’s what his parents had in mind, not him.

“One drink,” Tony held up his finger. “Any more, and Ma’ll chew my ear off for the resta the summer.”

“Good for you, momma’s boy. It wouldn’t be right to let you go without a proper send-off. Speaking of summer,” Mickey helped him disassemble and put away the equipment. “Are you absolutely sure you don’t want a spot on the next project? Hate to lose you.”

“You got something lined up already?”

“Never enough parking garages in Culver City.”

Tony thought about it as they took the elevator down to the street. When the westerlies were blowin’, it wasn’t a bad job — lotsa fresh air, sunshine, keepin’ fit.

There was something else, too, about sittin’ up so high on top of everything, on top of the world, watchin’ people rush around like ants — a wholesome perspective with a side helping of meek and humble. That was the crux of everything. If, on a planet of 3.6 billion people, one guy didn’t matter all that much, why not cruise around a bit? Check out what was goin’ on beyond his backyard. Tony was hungry for something else. There had to be more to life than a paycheck and a house with a pool. He knew he needed to expand his vision horizontally as well as vertically.

“Naw, time for me to go. Wouldn’t mind seeing a bit of the country before I settle in and get a degree at college or university. In any case, it’ll take a summer to organize myself.”

“You, a degree? Whatchoo gonna do, Tony? You’re no great intellect.”

“Hey, don’t be disrespectful. I wasn’t thinkin’ doctor or lawyer, but I could be a decent social worker. At least that way I can help out some without having t’join the priesthood.”

Or get sent across to the Mekong Delta, he didn’t say. The moment he turned eighteen, his name and number would automatically be thrown into that crap shoot. Of the eighteen guys in his class, five had already been called up: Dale and Rico were still okay so far as he knew, but Frankie came home in a box, Donnie lost his leg to a pongee stake boobytrap just after the Tet Offensive, and Reg lost his marbles — sectioned and lobotomized, a drooling vegetable.

Mickey looked surprised at Tony’s choice.

“Whaddya know, I’m impressed. Maybe, with a job like that, I might even see you ’round the neighbourhood. Some of these fellas could use a guy like you lookin’ after their backs. You’d hafta get a haircut though.”

“I was just about to say thanks, man, until you went and ruined it.” Tony’s long hair was the one bone of contention between him and everyone in his life over the age of thirty. For the most part, he kept it tightly braided and tucked under his shirt and hat, but when it was loose, it was a glossy mass of thick chestnut waves that fell to his waist, like Hensley from ‘Uriah Heep.’

“Whatcha growin’ it long like that fer — a good Catholic boy like you? Makes you look like you smoke them funny cigarettes.”

“Leave my hair outta it. Girls love it.”

“Is that so? Maybe I should grow mine out, what’s left of it. Whaddya think? Is it somethin’ the girls’ll go crazy over?”

Mickey’s thatch was sparse. Tony figured long hair would make him look like a tonsured monk — Friar Tuck or a baldy like Little John from some old Erroll Flynn movie that came up sometimes on The Late Show. He held his tongue at first, but laughed when he saw that’s what Mickey was really on about.

“Oh, will ya look at this, ferchrissakes?” Their brand new building now sported a spray-painted peace sign and the words ‘Boycott Dow!’ Mickey took out his handkerchief and tried to rub away the message, but the paint thoroughly saturated the concrete. “Bunker Hill sure has fallen low. My great-grandfather used to talk about this place like it was a dream. It’s a slum, now. Place needs fellas like you to set them straight.”

“Gee whillikers!” Tony mimicked Mickey Mouse. “Thanks, Mickey.”

This earned him a smack on the back of the head. “Asshole!”

Even at that hour, the cement of the parkade’s lowest level retained some of the early morning’s coolness. It felt good to linger in the shade.

“You did good work for us, Tony. Not many teenagers I would say that about. You punch out. Collect your final stub. There’ll be a buncha folks who wanna say goodbye. I’ll finish up here, and meetcha at the club in ’bout half-an-hour. Think of all those kittycats, just waitin’ for us, hey?” Mickey nudged Tony’s arm with an elbow, “Hey?”

Involuntarily, Tony shuddered.

 

**Saturday, 3:59 am**

 

It was still dark when Tony woke up to the unfamiliar sound of muffled waves. A cool draft caressed his completely naked and uncovered body. When he finally forced his eyes to open, a crazy image floated in front of his face. A half-nude, three-eyed, six-armed guy — or maybe it was a girl — he couldn’t tell. It was sitting on a great big lilypad, carrying all kinds of crazy things in its six hands from water lilies to what looked like perfume bottles — some sort of Oriental god painted on the low ceiling, with things glued to it, bits of mirror and glass beads. Though he’d never seen the thing in his life, there was something eerily familiar about it. Even without daylight to illuminate it, the colours and patterns seemed to swirl and undulate. The air was mixture of ocean salt, algae, old motor oil, incense and … dried spunk.

Tony struggled to sit and discovered he had been lying on a bare mattress in the back of what seemed to be a van, with the blond bricklayer curled next to him, also nude.

Tony’s mouth was too parched and papery to swallow. A line of salt ran down the side of his chin.

“Ow!” He rubbed his head. “Need water.”

“Mornin’.” Blond Bricklayer stirred. “There’s some in the plastic carryall next to the back door.”

He pointed at their feet. There, in a tangle of camping supplies, was a clear plastic inflatable water bag with a white spigot.

While trying to focus his eyes on it, Tony noticed the difference between the lithe, beautiful, boyish body lying beside him, and his immense, hairy one: Brillo-pad hairy —muscles like bricks, solid and defined, but chunky, like one of those cubist paintings — and big! — like the Tibettan yeti out of the old Tintin comics his parents used to buy him.

He suppressed a groan, “Thanks.”

There were no cups. The guy mimed holding the bag up over his head and letting the water run into his mouth. Tony’s first attempt splurted all over his face. He bumped his funny bone against a surfboard leaning against the side of the van. The guy giggled.

The second try worked better, and even if the water was warm and tasted of plastic, he could feel the very cells in his mouth expand at the touch of it.

“How are you feeling now?”

Tony traced back over his memories of the evening. It had gotten off to a shaky start with Motown music, strippers and round after round of rye-&-cokes, courtesy of his old workmates.

The evening levelled out after that with burgers, onion rings and chocolate malts by Venice beach, where the muscle men congregated during the day. Blond Bricklayer had followed him from one happening to the other.

“Groovy.”

Blond Bricklayer was a relaxed, cheerful, not-big-on-the-chitchat sorta guy, just the kind of company Tony wanted. It helped that he was easy on the eyes, with the way his teeth looked so white against his tanned skin when his smile lit up, and his expression was bright and clear, and … whoa! Tony had broken off the stare. He was paying way too much attention.

The ‘Easy Rider/Midnight Cowboy’ double feature at Graumann’s got a pass. Instead, they took in the strut of street rods and muscle cars. Tony talked to one guy with a Hurst Olds 442 Convertible with baby moons and forced air induction who modified his growling beast with a Hemi that, some of the crowd murmured reverently, could take it from zero to sixty in four-point-three. The array of GTOs, Cutlasses and Barracudas fired up so many horses, the entire road rumbled and shook like a midwestern thunderstorm. Their monsters flashed so much chrome, they reminded him of when his folks stayed up for Johnny Carson because Liberace was playing.

Not that this was a Liberace crowd. The Beach Boys were doo-wopping ‘Good Vibrations’ over a Camero S10, but the one which stuck with Tony was ‘Give Me Some Lovin’ by The Spenser Davis Group from the little Corvette Stingray. It popped its top to let out some Wahinis on the make just for them.

When the girls waved at them to come over, Blond Bricklayer took off his baseball cap, and a long braid tumbled down. He pulled the ribbon free and shook it out, a golden waterfall under the streetlights.

“You a flower child?” Tony’s urge to tangle his fingers in that hair almost took over. He stopped it by stroking a finger down a single shimmering strand.

One of the Corvette babes whistled and shouted, “Hey, Friends of Dorothy! You’re not in Kansas anymore.”

The guy smiled. “Is that a problem?”

Tony wasn’t sure how to read that. Was Blond Bricklayer comin’ on to him?

“Naw, looks cool.”

“Better’n Angela Conforti?” The smile turned into a crinkle-eyed grin, which did funny things to Tony, made him feel like he was floating on his back in the bay, or even up in the sky floating up to the moon. Until that moment, he never properly understood what ‘lighthearted’ meant.

“You heard that, did you? Yeah, the hair looks nifty.” Tony swallowed. “Really cool.” Like Roger Daltrey, he didn’t say, or Robert Plant.

The guy sauntered off, flashing the crook in his grin over his shoulder. Tony drank in the lean, supple lines under his t-shirt and blue jeans, imagining what it would feel like to map them with his tongue and fingers. He zeroed in on his can. Blond Bricklayer caught this, gave it a little wiggle and stuck out his tongue. Tony laughed. He knew he wasn’t being subtle, and now he knew it didn’t matter.

A customized ’39 Pontiac streetrod on a Nova chassis collected a slew of admirers.

Angels on Harleys dispersed when a buncha motorcycle cops in white crash helmets pulled up.

To wash off the day’s grime, he and Blond Bricklayer took a midnight dip under the full moon on the beach. When Blond Bricklayer took it all off, there were no tan lines anywhere. Only his golden hair reflected light. Tony didn’t even try to hide the fact that he was openly staring, checking him out. The guy was eggin’ him on. If he didn’t give his gonads a coldwater bath soon, Tony was gonna embarrass himself.

He only stripped down to his gonch, though — which glowed so white in the moonlight, he wondered why he bothered. Not that it would’ve been much better to skinny-dip instead. Some parts never saw daylight. The only sight worse than tight white underpants floating around in the dark like a bizarre Fruit-of-the-Loom apparition, he figured, had to be the sight of a bobbing, disembodied white butt and lumpen-parts. Nobody else needed to know what they were doing.

The water was cool and refreshing, no rips and great for horsin’ around.

They smoked a joint afterwards, in the shadows under some flowering yuccas, nice and easy.

Tony remembered how they’d read the mood in each other’s faces, and soon, their hands fondled wet skin and well-cut muscles, and their tongues tangled and sucked together, sending shots of some extreme sort of contraction to his legs. Tony wanted to thrust, to push up against the guy. He got really daring, grabbed his partner’s ass with both hands and started to squeeze and massage. Blond Bricklayer moaned against his mouth and rubbed against his crotch. Every nerve ending in his body had wound up there. They were both so hard. They both wanted this, but Tony’s head was whirling.

Suddenly, it was going too fast for him. He pulled away.

“It would be better if we did this somewhere we won’t draw a crowd,” Blond Bricklayer admitted.

Tony nodded, mutely. It was purely by luck that they hadn’t attracted any attention yet. People were too busy checking other stuff out. Gangs often roved the sands and shook down dumb tourists or rolled bums for smokes. He wasn’t scared, but nobody would take kindly to a coupla guys makin’ out.

Besides, the only way Tony could grapple with this weird ‘deviance’ was to go with the flow. He wasn’t sure if he was drunk enough. If he spared a thought for the way he was brought up, the other guys he worked with, his very Catholic father and mother — Christ!

“We parked my van over there.” It wasn’t far.

Tony always realized he wasn’t a typical horndog teenaged male, but the head-shrinkers gave men shock therapy and pills for this type of thing. He didn’t want that, neither.

So this was how he and Blond Bricklayer wound up in the back of this van, listening to Jim Morrison intone ‘Riders on the Storm’ while rubbin’ up against together like they was tryin’ to crawl into each other’s skin. Finally, they settled into the steady rhythm of hand jobs. It was the best! Super-cool! He never knew that another person’s hand on his dick would feel so hot, so mind-blowin’, so outta this world.

Tony got the sense there would’ve been more, but he had been blockin’ out every unnecessary thought. The drinks and grass took their toll, and after he came, he passed out.

“Man!” Tony rubbed his head. “Did I — uh, are you — cool?”

The guy looked at him sideways.

“I didn’t pass out before you came, did I?”

There was a snort of laughter. “Don’t sweat it.”

“I should get home. I should get to my — aw, man! I ditched the truck in Bunker Hill, didn’t I? Not much chance of anythin’ being left now, is there?”

Blond Bricklayer started pulling on clothes. “No need to freak out. It’s still parked at the garage, and that’s a union shop. No one will snatch anything under Squallo Francone’s protection.”

“Is that — Really? Far out!” Don’t count on it, he didn’t say. If anything, Tony figured, that made it worse. The guy seemed a little more naïve than he looked. “Mind givin’ me a lift there?”

Blond Bricklayer pulled out his keys.

“Wait!” Tony reached over and pulled him in for a kiss. He made it tender to convey his thanks.

Blond Bricklayer lapped at his mouth eagerly, then as though sensing that Tony was getting hard again, pushed him away with a laugh. “Don’t bum yourself out too much, ’kay? ’Cause the only regret I got is that I didn’t get to ride this.”

Tony laughed nervously as a firm male hand squeezed him through the front of his jeans. Now that any lingering effects of the grass they’d smoked had worn off, his head and stomach felt a bit woozy, but that wasn’t all. Last night, he’d been overcome with an unusual fearlessness. Now, he was only aware that he’d never fucked a guy before, and that took more know-how than he had.

Blond Bricklayer smiled a bit sadly and started humming.

_“O Lord, kiss me once more, fill me with song,”_ Donovan was faking the worst East Indian accent Tony had ever heard as they drove back to the garage where he’d spent the past year, _“Allah, kiss me once more that I may, that I may wear my love like heaven, wear my love la-la-la ….”_

In the darkness, it struck Tony that the only reason Mickey had let him go so easily was because he figured he’d be coming back, that it was just a matter of a wedding, a coupla babies and a house in the ’burbs. Too late, Tony sighed, not out of disrespect. He’d read his Arthur Miller in high school; he knew about the many types of courage that didn’t require being stationed near Saigon. Tony just knew that life wasn’t for him.

Under the white beam of the streetlights, Blond Bricklayer’s van turned out to be a psychedelic wet-dream. Tony couldn’t believe his eyes when he got out and saw a replica of the Japanese Great Wave spray-painted across it. As he walked over to the driver’s side window to shake his benefactor’s hand, he said, “Man, how’d you ever get a job workin’ here with a ride like that?”

Blond Bricklayer scowled. “I thought we were past those sorta labels.”

“Just curious.” Tony backed off. “Didn’t mean nothin’ by it — except that Mickey’s been a good boss to me, but he’s as square and narrow-minded as any meat-and-potatoes construction foreman can come.”

“Kept my hair up under my helmet and hitchhiked that first day to the casual labour stroll.” Blond Bricklayer shrugged. “And as for the rest, let’s just say there’s a reason why I was never promoted past bricklayer’s apprentice to, say, riveter.”

“That sucks rotten eggs!”

“Yeah, but last night I finally got to do what I stuck around for.”

“You did? That’s good. What was it?”

Blond Bricklayer looked at him.

Tony’s breath hitched. No way! It had just been a passing thrill for him. The thought that anyone would actually go through all that for him was unreal. He suddenly wanted to know this guy better. “Say, would you like to—”

“Forget about it. The moment’s passed.” Blond Bricklayer avoided looking at him. He fiddled with the case of eight-tracks instead, probably lookin’ for tunes that weren’t quite so mellow. He slipped in some Grace Slick and Jefferson Airplane.

Tony was surprised at how sad this felt. “It’s just that I—”

“It was fun, Tony-the-Riveter, but now it’s time to get a new groove on. Don’t mess with the Tao. Or if you can’t manage that, at least don’t forget your Zen.”

“Huh? My — what? You want me to what?”

“Enh, never mind. Maybe it’ll come back to you sometime.”

“But what if I want to see you again?”

“If it’s meant to be, you will.”

“At least tell me your name.”

“No chance!” Blond Bricklayer laughed, throwing the stick into neutral and starting to roll. Tony trotted beside him, hanging onto the edge of the window. “The Buddha says that the naming of things causes them lose their real meaning. I think it’s kinda funny you know me carnally, but don’t know what to call me. That’s better’n a label any day.”

With a wave, he took off. Tony watched as the naked Venus in the scallop shell painted on the back of the van was swallowed behind a cement roller, and then was gone. He scratched at the salt residue on his scalp. The Buddha-what? What was that all about?

 

**Saturday, 4:59 am**

 

The sky was starting to lighten in the east as the International finally pulled up to the curb in front of Tony’s home.

_“Come down off your throne and leave your body alone,”_ Blind Faith moaned over the eight-track. _“Somebody must change.”_

The lights were still on. A patrol car sat in the driveway, its cherry swirling like the devil’s lighthouse. An officer leaned against the driver’s side door, talking into his radio through the open window. Another officer came out the front door, a photo in hand.

Mrs. Gronstein, next door, was watchin’ from her stoop like this was the earliest Saturday morning cartoon, still in her slippers, dressing gown and curlers, the usual toxic brew of Nescafé and Carnation Instant in her hands. Gloria, her cairn terrier, was goin’ bananas, barking and lunging at the glass of her storm door, although the only actual sound of it was an occasional thump and scrabble. Across the street, the front drapes flickered.

Tony couldn’t believe it. He’d been working and paying rent for the past year, and living and acting like a legal adult for enough time that most people gave him credit. He hadn’t had a curfew since he turned thirteen. He slammed the stick into park and shut her down.

An unsettling discomfort tickled him when his mother ran out the front door and threw herself into his arms. His father followed her down their front steps towards him, more sedately, the first intimation that this may not be about him at all.

He hugged his mother and rubbed her back. “What’s going on?”

“Assunta isn’t with you?” His father looked him over, taking in the dirty jeans and work-shirt. Tony hadn’t been able to change since the previous evening. His body itched with dried seawater and other stuff. His hair was stiff with salt. “Where’ve you been?”

“The guys decided to throw me a goodbye party. What’s wrong?”

One of the policemen walked over, opening his casebook. “Who are you?”

Tony glanced at his father, stunned.

“He’s my son, Officer Krupnik.”

“Can you please give me your name?”

“Uh, Tony—”

“Full name.”

“Antonio Sebastiano Giovanni Cosentino.”

Krupnik grimaced. “Spell that for me.”

Tony started reciting the letters while gesturing confusion with his hands and looking over at his father for answers. His father started to speak several times, but the policeman was persistant.

“And where have you been since —” he glanced at his watch “— five o’clock yesterday evening?”

Tony gaped. Did he look like a nutcase? Like hell was he going to spill his beans to the Fuzz. “Am I under suspicion for somefin’? ’Cause before I answer any questions, I need to know what this is about.”

“You haven’t heard from your sister, have you?” his father finally broke in.

“Lepinsky, bring over your clipboard, stat, will ya?” Krupnik called to the other officer, who remained by the patrol-car window talking into the radio, but waved the clipboard at him to fetch.

“I haven’t seen her since—” Tony thought back. “Since before I went to bed, night before last, around ten. She wasn’t up when I left for work yesterday. Why?”

“Can you tell us anything about this?” Krupnik finished walking back from Lepinsky and shoved the clipboard toward Tony. There was a letter written on notepaper from the stationary set he had bought Assunta for her last birthday and a copy of her last high school studio portrait photo.

Tony read the letter. It looked like Assunta had started off by lassoing some song lyrics within a big heart-shape:

_“If you’re going to San Francisco, be sure to wear some flowers in your hair!”_ This was followed with a line of little hearts, a doodle (not half-bad) of Fat Freddie’s Cat and a short note: “I’m with Jodie. Don’t wait for me. Don’t look for us. We’ll be all right. I love you. Hugs and kisses. ’Bye!”

“What does this mean, Tony?” his mother cried. “What’s going on?”

“Have you tried calling Jodie?”

“Naturally,” his father replied. “Her parents received a similar letter. They also discovered that Jodie had cleared out and closed down her college savings account, which they’ve been putting money in since grade school, and there was a suitcase missing from the closet, along with her clothes.”

“Which was when I went up to Assunta’s room,” his mother took over. “She’s also taken one of your great-aunt’s ratty old suitcases, that horrible worn-out carpet-bag thing from the 1930s, of all things! And she’s broken open her piggybank and stolen all her money, but left behind that lovely new pea-coat that I bought her from the F. C. Nash Company, and her twinset and pearls, and those pretty new alligator skin pumps from—”

“Okay, okay, Momma.” Tony had to stop her. He glanced at the perfectly rectangular bed of marigolds, dahlias and chrysanthemums she had planted under the front window. She was so proud of them, but Assunta used to grumble about how square and ticky-tacky they looked. She’d sneak-smoke by the peony bush next to the driveway just so she could crush the butts in that bed. Their mother would complain about the sloppy habits of ‘some people,’ blaming the milkman, or the postman, or the utility meter reader. It was lucky for Mrs. Gronstein that she didn’t smoke, Tony figured, or his mom would’ve accused her of property sabotage and started World War Three. “She probably figured she wouldn’t need them.”

“It sounds like your son might know what this is about, more’n us, Mr. Cosentino.” Officer Krupnik continued scrawling in shorthand. “Could you please edify us?”

“Edi-what?”

“Do you know where she’s going?” His father’s face was grimmer than Tony had ever seen it, even after he’d received the call that Great-Granddad Cosentino went missing when his fishing boat went down off Corsica. Everything turned so quiet, while everyone was waiting for Tony’s answer, he could hear the faint ‘brraaaa-tata-taaatt’ of jake-brakes off an eighteen-wheeler reverberating clear over from Laurel Canyon somewhere.

“Sorta. At least, somewhere in the general area.” Tony pointed at the clipboard. “She tells us, right there in her letter.”

“You don’t mean to say she’s serious?”

“I think so. Don’t you?”

“Just to be clear, it is your stated belief that —” Krupnik flipped back through some pages of his casebook “— your sister is on her way to San Francisco.”

“I don’t know for sure.” Tony said, suppressing a sigh of impatience. “I just figured that ’cause that’s what she wrote.”

“Except she didn’t,” Krupnik took the clipboard from him. “She wrote—”

“Yeah, okay, okay, but why would she put that in there unless that’s where she’s goin’?”

“Why would she do this to us, Tony?” His mother tugged on his arm. “The school year is almost finished. Why would she drop out just a coupla years before her graduation prom?”

It had been a couple of years, since the summer before she followed him into senior high, that he’d last had a real conversation with Assunta, but Tony was pretty sure she couldn’t care less about the prom or graduation. He’d been on her case to stop skipping school, but she had laughed at him and called him a male chauvinist pig. He got bumped ahead a grade. She almost ended up having to repeat one.

“Have you heard her speak about that city before?” the policeman continued.

“Uh, yeah, she’s mentioned it a few times.” Tony remembered that the last time he’d seen her, Assunta was chatting over the telephone — probably with Jodie — about an upcoming Santana gig at The Fillmore. But most groups came south to perform at Thee Experience on Sunset and Genessee, too, so Tony didn’t think that would be enough reason for her to take off. This sounded bigger.

When he relayed this information to Krupnik, the officer snapped his casebook closed. “Okay, Mrs. Cosentino, I’m going to be blunt. Technically, this doesn’t even count as a missing person or a runaway case. We usually wait twenty-four hours before we fill out one of those types of reports. It sounds like your daughter and her friend have taken a little unofficial holiday, but she’ll probably come back after her concert, or when her money runs out. Since there is clearly no kidnapping or foul play involved, I’m afraid there isn’t much else we can do.”

“She’s only sixteen years old, Officer.” Tony’s father was very upset. “Are you sure?”

“Have you checked the Greyhound station or the airport?”

Tony shook his head. “Assunta and Jodie wouldn’t waste their money that way. They’re prob’ly hitchhiking. They prob’ly caught a lift hours ago.”

Tony’s mom gasped. His father scowled. “Do they know what could happen?”

“I’m sure they do, but lotsa kids are doin’ it these days.” Tony pre-empted the inevitable backlash by adding, “And I know that doesn’t make it right. I’m just sayin’, if I know Assunta, she’n’Jodie prob’ly found a group of other kids to hang with — safety in numbers. There are so many takin’ off for festivals and gatherings and protests these days, the police can’t look for every missing teenager.” He took a deep breath. “Not unless the worst happens, and — uh …” Tony saw his mother covering her mouth with both hands and shaking her head, eyes tearing up again.

“Your boy is right, Mrs. Cosentino,” Krupnik said. “We just don’t have the manpower. We can’t. But if the status on this case changes—”

Tony was relieved he left that thought hanging. As the police got in their car and pulled away, his mother fluttered after them, apologetically.

The fatigue of the past couple days suddenly caught up with him. Tony looked blearily at his dad. “I need to crash. Can we figure this out in a coupla hours?”

The old man nodded, his face stoic. Oddly, it made him look frail and defeated. “Go ahead.”

Not even a shower could revive Tony. After soaping up and shampooing, he stood numb and motionless under the stream of water, letting it wash over him as though it could cleanse everything else away. He tried to think of ways of finding Assunta, at least to talk to her, but felt too thick for any breakthrough. It was too much, all the things that had happened since quitting time the day before. When the hot water ran out, he wrapped one towel around his head, another around his butt and walked down the hallway to his bedroom.

The bed looked so cool and inviting with its fresh sheets, he flumped down on it just for a second.

 

**Saturday, 12:59 am**

 

The smell of minestrone woke Tony up. He reached for the alarm clock and stared at it stupidly for a while until he realized that it really was past noon, and the lateness of the hour had nothing to do with forgotting to rewind it before getting out of bed the previous morning. The events of the past day rushed back so suddenly, it made his head swim.

He fumbled on some clean clothes and took the stairs down, three at a time. As usual, the air conditioning unit had been set too cold. The entire downstairs felt like an icebox. Insulated in a long-sleeved sweater and full apron over her dress and a slip and pantyhose under it, his mother bustled around the kitchen.

“Smells good, Ma.”

“I thought you might be hungry when you woke up,” she said, plunking down a glass of milk and a fried bologna sandwich on the placemat where he always sat. Tony decided to keep it to himself that he wouldn’t have woken up in the first place, if it weren’t for her cooking. He was too hungry to argue about it.

“It feels great to be treated like a little kid from time to time,” he said instead, chugging down the milk.

When he saw her stricken expression, he wished he hadn’t. Eyes darting around for something to foster a quick change of subject, he noticed his father’s sweater wasn’t hanging on its usual peg by the back door. The car keys were also gone. “I didn’t think Dad would go into work today.”

She dropped the soup ladle she had started washing back into the dishwater, her shoulders shaking. Tony left his breakfast, walked over and hugged her.

It took awhile for her to regain enough composure to choke out, between sobs, “I told him not to go. San Francisco’s so big and crazy, and he doesn’t know where to even start, but he wouldn’t listen. I don’t know what he thinks he’s going to do.”

Tony let her hang onto him and moan awhile. He should’ve known his dad couldn’t sit tight. Even though Tony understood why Assunta had to leave, he was disturbed by the way she did it. He stared at the souvenir cuckoo clock on the wall as it struck quarter-past and the bird popped out to pronounce its opinion on events.

At some point, his mother pulled away from his embrace and said, tearily, “What will we do if something happens to him?”

“What?” The question confused and startled him.

“Your father! It’s such a mixed-up world these days—”

“Gee, no, don’t do that, Ma, please! Nothin’s gonna happen to him. What’re you thinking, he’s some kinda crazy nutball?”

She sniffed, indignantly.

“But you and me, we know him better’n that, right?” Tony squeezed her again. “He had to take off ’cause he couldn’t just sit around doin’ nothing. Anything — drivin’ somewhere, anywhere … nowhere — was better’n waiting for the phone to ring. He’ll be back the second his head cools a bit. Just you wait and see.”

As if on cue, the telephone started to ring. She gave a little jump and stared at doorway into the hall. “See? That’s gotta be him — either him, or Assunta.”

While she trotted out to the telephone stand, he opened the window. The smog hadn’t settled into the Valley yet, and the air was hot, but not suffocating. The warmth was a relief. Then he picked up the sandwich plate and stood in the doorway, munching while she answered it.

“Yes, operator, this is Mrs. Cosentino and we’ll accept the charges.” She nodded at him, confirming his first guess. “Hello, dear? No, she hasn’t called. We haven’t heard anything yet… I see.”

Tony set the sandwich down, and with a pencil from the utility drawer and a piece of notepaper from the bulletin board beside the fridge, wrote her a note, “Let me talk to him.”

Mr. Cosentino had made it as far as Ventura County before pulling over to gas up. There were so many hitchhikers and groups of kids at the side of the highway that he had literally crawled all the way from Malibu. If anyone had seen or recognized Assunta, they weren’t telling him.

“Come home, Dad.” Tony told him. “Momma needs you more’n Assunta does right now.”

“Are you saying I should just let your sister go?” His father sounded like Tony was telling him to let her drown, which was exactly what he was telling him. Sorta.

“No, ’course not, but you won’t get anywhere chasing after her. You don’t even know where to start lookin’, do you?”

The line was silent.

“See, I got some ideas,” Tony told him. When his mother started shaking her head in adamant refusal, he had to turn his back on her. It was hard enough to say these things to his dad without her getting all caught up in unnecessary emotions. “I know who her friends were, the places where she’n’her gang used to hang out, to start with, so I know what to look for. And people my age, they won’t find it so difficult to talk to me. I gotta better chance of finding her.”

“That’s true.”

Tony took his voice down a couple notches so his mother couldn’t hear him clearly over Jack La Lanne’s afternoon calisthenics on the television. “I just don’t know if I can convince her to come home, you know? If she doesn’t want to—”

“Are you saying there’s no point to even lookin’ for her?” Tony had never heard his dad sound so defeated.

“I didn’t say that.”

“For Pete’s sake, she’s only sixteen!”

“Yeah, I know.” Tony scanned around for some notepaper to write down the gas station phone number in case he needed to call back. He could see some on the coffee table in the living room, under the _Family Circle_ magazine. He was distracted for a moment by the ad slogan on the page where it lay open, ‘Nothing sucks like an Electrolux,’ until he realized that the telephone cord wouldn’t stretch that far.

“She shouldn’t’a done this to her mother. How could she be such a featherhead?”

“So, this is my suggestion, dad.” Tony cut him off. “I’ll start by calling around to some of her friends. She’s probably talked to a whole buncha people about her plans. If I get a lead, I’ll follow that. Okay? ’Cause there’s nothin’ which says she’s headed north for certain. But if she is, think about it: I just finished my job. I don’t have any obligations unless I go to college in the fall ….”

“And if you find her? What then?”

“At the very least, I’ll get her to phone you. I’ll _make_ her talk to you. Then it’s up to you guys and her.”

“No, Pauly. Don’t let him.” His mother, tired of being left out of this discussion, had gone upstairs to the extension line in the hallway. “I couldn’t stand to lose both of them.”

“Stop it, Agnese. He’s a man.”

 

**Sunday, 4:59 pm**

 

Sunday morning mass had been dodged in order to make dozens of phone calls, only one or two of which were fruitful by the time Tony finally left. He followed the old Cabrillo Highway northwest from San Louis Obispo to Big Sur. On his left, the Diablo Mountains glowed a fiery orange-red from wild poppies against a peacock blue sky. To his right, a faded old billboard flashed by which sported a rainbow-coloured hang-glider floating over the Sierra Nevada. It announced that Winston was a proud supporter of the Monterey Pops Festival, which had already been over for two years.

The Top 40 AM signal had kept fading in and out as the road switched around hills. Most of the stations broadcast either Fire and Brimstone or Easy Listening. He was okay with the Tijuana Brass while sweeping through such countryside, but when Oliver started moaning, _“Jean, Jean, roses are red. All the leaves have turned green …,”_ he turned it off.

His parents had insisted on loading the camper canopy on the back of his truck and stocking it almost as fully as when the whole family used to go camping together. This hadn’t happened since Tony was in the last year of junior high school. He wondered if this was one of the ways in which his transition to high school might’ve caused hardship for his sister, or if she had even enjoyed those family trips to Yellowstone or Yosemite. Probably not, he thought — the way Assunta had changed, she probably thought they were a form of torture. When his parents discovered that their pup-tent and fly, the army surplus backpack and a sleeping bag were missing, the realization that Assunta must’ve taken them brought his Dad some relief.

His mother had practically emptied the refrigerator and pantry into his cooler and would’ve unloaded most of the freezer chest, too, if he hadn’t stopped her.

“It’s alright, Ma.” He made her put back the roast. “You’re embarrassing me. I’ve got enough money. I’ve been making more’n Dad these past six months. I don’t need to take the food outta your mouths.”

Not only had she put together all that and enough clean socks and underwear to fill an entire drawer, but she thought to include some photos and handwriting samples in a manilla envelope which Tony could use to help strangers identify her daughter. In the back of the camper, she’d also placed a whole ’nuther suitcase packed with all the articles of clothing that Assunta had — to Tony’s way of thinking — probably abandoned for good.

“You tell your sister that every respectable young woman needs a twin set, pearls, at least two pairs of pantyhose and a good set of pumps at some point in her life. I won’t insist on the girdle. She may disagree, but at least she will have them when that moment arrives.”

She was almost drowned out by the radio station blaring over their huge, fancy stereo console. Not only did the stereo take up the whole front window space in the living room, Tom Jones filled up every other inch bawling about _The Green, Green Grass of Home._

Then Tony rifled through the photos of Assunta. At the top of the pile was a snapshot taken at her First Communion. She had been eight years old, dressed in white frothy lace, and wearing a veil.

“What’s this gonna do?” He pulled the photo outta the pile. “Nobody’s gonna recognize her from this.”

“When you tell Miss Assunta Cristina to come home, if she gives you a hard time, you show that to her. Remind her of where she comes from!”

He almost said, “Jesus, no! Do you wanna scare her away forever?” It was on the tip of his tongue, but when Tony looked at her eyes, he didn’t bother. This was the last toll he had to pay to cross that last bridge outta there, his mother’s last attempt to impose her control over the situation.

“Listen, I gotta hit the road,” he said instead. “If I don’t leave now, I won’t have a chance of seeing her if she’s stuck somewhere.”

After some hugs and more tears from his mother, and a handshake and a clap on the shoulder from his dad, he finally untangled himself, stepped into the cab of his truck and left them behind.

He turned the radio on as he wound down the stretch into Morro Bay at about seven o’clock. Shadows started stretching eastward from the masts of ships and the huge turtle-shaped rock in the harbour. He’d been driving with the windows rolled down all afternoon, but it was the first time a steady breeze off the Pacific refreshed the air. Breakers roared continuously.

He stopped to fill the tank and eat a soft ice-cream at Cass’ Landing in Cayucos Bay.

“It was there this morning.” He heard the gas station attendant tell the mechanic, as he squeezed the nozzle to the pump. “Idiot must’ve driven it onto the beach in the dark.”

The mechanic nodded, carefully wiping a greasy distributor cap clean with a rag. “What time was high tide?”

“Five o’clock, according to the Almanac.”

“Whaddaya think?” The mechanic switched from the rag to the front of his green coveralls. “Figure we’re gonna hafta send out the tow-truck?”

“Don’t know. Haven’t heard from anyone yet. Time’ll tell.”

“If they wait too long, it’ll end up floatin’ out into the Bay.”

“I don’t even know if salvage laws apply yet; too soon to say if it’s been abandoned.” The gas station attendant put the nozzle away, and turned to Tony, “D’you wanna get your tires checked?”

Tony shook his head and paid up. His tires were fine, but his spirits felt strangely deflated. There was no reason for the sudden bout of melancholy. As he pulled off, he tried to recall the same sense of exhilaration and adventure he’d gotten as Santa Barbara sank behind him. Was it too much to expect it would last longer than a single afternoon?

Over the radio, James Taylor was strumming, _“I've seen fire and I've seen rain, I've seen sunny days that I thought would never end, I've seen lonely times when I could not find a friend, but I always thought that I'd see you again,”_ as the onset of gloom almost caused Tony to miss something he never expected to see. From the bluffs over Estero Bay, he happened to glance at the beach over his shoulder and did an immediate double-take. There, on a half-moon stretch of sand with the setting sun rays full against it was a van painted with _The Great Wave off Kanegawa._ Even from that height, the monstrous sea-onions and strands of kelp which clung to its tires like shreds off a sea-witch’s scalp were horribly obvious. It looked like it had just washed in.

Cursing, Tony slammed the truck in third and coasted into a sharp left onto the side road that took people down the cliffs. When he got to the bottom, he left the truck parked safely and ran the remaining distance.

“Hey! HEY! Are you alright?” He yelled. Nobody answered. There wasn’t a sign of life anywhere. There were all kinds of things strewn around on rocks, however, weighted down with other rocks or pieces of driftwood. It looked like they had been set out to dry, but the owner wasn’t anywhere nearby to claim them.

“Are you okay?” Tony sprinted up to the van and checked in the seats and the back, wishing Blond Bricklayer hadn’t been so coy about his name. Nobody had been in there for at least that day. It had been cleared out pretty good, although the surfboard was still strapped to the wall inside. The painting of the Oriental god on the ceiling sparkled with its undulating pattern of sequins, beads, mirrors and sea glass ornaments.

Tony looked around the beach. There was no sign of a campfire or tent. A lump formed in his chest when he saw the plastic water-carrier sticking out of rippled sand where it had been dumped by the tide.

Almost without thinking, he started to grab whatever stuff he could find that had been left behind and tossed it back into the van. Everything had been well-baked in the day’s sun by then, although a few of the rugs were a bit damp on the bottom. The fact that they were set outside like that was an enormous comfort to him. Their placement reassured Tony that their owner was still possibly alive, even if it looked like he’d abandoned them.

Tony thought about it. The likeliest, most simple explanation that occurred to him was that Blond Bricklayer had probably parked there thinking it would make for a good campsite and place to surf, and fell asleep when the tide rolled in. Breakers along the Big Sur were massive. Most spots were too dangerous to surf. If the thing had filled up with seawater, there was a good chance the engine could’ve seized up. Salt did terrible things to motors. Tony figured the guy had probably been at a loss and walked away thinkin’ he had no choice. His heart did a funny little throbbing thump over the thought. It couldn’t be nice to be so alone in the world.

After he finished packing for the second time that day, Tony rolled up the windows, then shut and locked all the doors except on the driver’s side. After a minute’s sit-and-think, he decided to backtrack to the Landing and hire the mechanic to tow and store the van, at least until the autumn. That way, if Blond Bricklayer ever came back, he could reclaim it.

 

**II. Nickel Bag Café**

 

**Monday, 5:59 am**

 

At 5:59, Hanael woke up. The full moon and a nickel bag joint had summoned strange dreams through the night: dreams of battles in ornately gilded palaces, of slathering demons driven mad with bloodlust, and of monasteries perched on dizzying promonitories with clouds at his feet. Even though it bore familiar elements, the visions weren’t from this life, the one which had changed so dramatically since he’d returned from Rewalsar in the Himachal Pradesh at the suggestion of the Tulka, who’d taken him there from America in the first place.

The next Tertön king was to be reincarnated in the West, as he had been. The present Tertön decreed that someone had to prepare his way, so Kailasa ka Kha Rinpoche — as he’d been ordained — was sent to California. Except he wasn’t Kailasa ka Kha Rinpoche anymore, but Hanael, just Hanael — and from the tickling in his nose, there was some sort of insect crawling up it.

Hanael jerked up to a sitting position and blew out a spider, one of the hazards of sleeping outdoors. It looked like the little guy was okay, though. It crawled shakily away for a safer hiding place.

It was hard enough keeping everything straight from just a single lifetime, let alone having others dogpile onto it. In this lifetime alone, before Hanael-from-California had become Kailasa-from-the-Himalayas, he had been simply Kevin-from-Boston. At least, he thought it was Boston. He couldn’t even remember his parents’ names. He’d only been a seven-year-old when they had flown him to India for his initiation and to assume his first set of robes and take his first oaths. How was he supposed to keep things straight from back before he was reborn, if he couldn’t remember everything that came after it?

His past lives kept trying to tell him something important, though, something he was supposed to remember. Hanael wished he could read those memories more clearly.

It was still early morning, damp and dewy, under the pagoda at the Japanese Tea Garden. The small expanse of lawn he could see through the openings in the walls was dotted with people who’d slept over from the Golden Gate Park love-in, colorful lumps shrouded in mists and blankets, not unlike the boulders which rose from the artfully raked pea gravel beds.

_“Where have all the flowers gone? Long time passing,”_ someone was gently crooning and strumming an acoustic guitar near the willow bridge. It had the softness of a lullaby. _“Where have all the flowers gone? Long time ago ….”_

The fellow he’d shared his bedroll with — Rafe, or Rafael, he thought his name was … another name Hanael couldn’t quite remember — mumbled something incoherent and pulled the rest of his Mexican woollen blanket over his shoulders. Hanael smiled, lay back down and snuggled up to him.

Rafe was a bit of a space cadet, one of these guys who lived from the head up. Hanael had spent the night paying rapt attention as Rafe had explained the principles of Tantra to him. It was stuff Hanael hadn’t picked up even though he’d been given official instructions in official jnana yoga classes — he really was a very poor sort of Buddhist. Maybe he should’ve spent less time napping in class, although he still wasn’t sure why it was important to know that the reason the Shri Yantra had petals was because it represented a goddess. The only goddess who showed up in Hanael’s mind, when he thought of them, was someone with a smart mouth, jangley ankle bracelets, a lot of attitude, and a dick — a bigger dick than Rafe’s, although not as big as Tony’s. Tony, the dick who got away …

Hanael had been so sure he was the one. All the dharma recognition signals had gone off on high alert-with-flashing-lights in his head the second he’d seen the guy. Maybe Hanael was a crappy Buddhist, maybe he’d taken a leave of absence from his vows and walked away from his sacred name and the sanctuary he’d started building under Mount Shasta in northern California, but his master’s final instructions still percolated in the back of his thoughts. He trusted his heart, another path to fulfilling his duties he felt more likely to succeed — more intuitive and less obvious. So he’d set aside the trappings of a monk and enjoyed pleasures that were both carnal and venal. And speaking of venal pleasures—

“Your thoughts are so loud, I can almost hear them,” Rafe suddenly grumbled.

Hanael winced. “Sorry about that.”

Rafe sighed and sat up. He fumbled around on the wooden beams until he found his glasses, then he started folding up their bedding.

“C’mon,” he told Hanael. “I know where we can get some breakfast and a really good cup of coffee.”

“Coffee?” Hanael’s spirits perked up. Stimulants were one of the carnal pleasures he had acquired a taste for now that he was on a leave of absence from being a monk.

The muscles in his butt twinged as he hopped to his feet, bringing on another wince.

“You okay?”

“Fine.”

Rafe’s cock was on the narrow side, but longer than most, and he was strong and flexible enough to bend Hanael into all kinds of different positions. They were lucky to bag the pagoda for themselves, since it meant they didn’t have to be as discreet.

“You sure? It’s a bit of a walk.”

The mists which cloaked the other sleeping hippies turned out to be smoke. Someone had lit a fire in one of the pea-gravel beds and had fed it with dead wood from some bonsai.

“Hey, man, that’s not cool.” Two young women — one tall, olive-skinned and lean, with an aloof and elegant air about her; the other short and Ruebenesque with wild strawberry blonde curls, big blue eyes and an open expression; both hefting around massive army-&-navy surplus back packs that looked heavier than they were — confronted the person responsible, a burly leather-clad rock-’n-roller who didn’t look like he was there for the peace signs and flowers.

“Yeah? And who are you? The pigs’ special stool pigeons?” The guy was massive, with fists like sacks of potatoes and weird, very large ears that stuck out like an elephant’s. “You’d better hop along, little squealers, if you know what’s good for you.”

“We aren’t here to destroy the place. You should show some respect for the beautiful garden people have made for us to enjoy.”

Hanael admired the women’s fearlessness, but this guy looked like he was primed for trouble.

“Who appointed you the voice of the people?”

_“Look at Bruiser, loudmouthed user, got a chip on his fat shoulder.”_ Hanael jumped in and randomly started singing nonsense. He didn’t really know why he did it. The idea and words just came to him, along with the thought that a distraction was needed. Three heads swivelled to stare at him, Rafe, the young women and the vandal. From their expressions, they clearly thought he had gone bonkers. _“Stay on the ball around this loser, ’cause he’s the feds’ provocateur.”_

“Man, that doesn’t even scan right, let alone make any sense.” Rafe tried to grab his arm and haul him to a safer distance. “Are you trying to start a fight?”

Hanael shook his hand off, and continued to taunt the guy, leaping around like a knobbly-kneed stork.

“What did you call me?” The guy, creaking with stiff leather, lumbered to his feet.

“I’m hopping, I’m hopping! Just like you ordered.” Hanael was fast and agile, sometimes right in the guy’s face, but usually out of swinging range.

The bruiser took a run at him, overreached, slipped on some mud at the bank of the garden’s water feature, and toppled in. Hanael kicked his burning coals in after him.

“A plant, huh?” The girl looked at Hanael, her eyes strong and clear. A frisson of familiarity shivered through him. “Figures. What a putz! It makes me sick that he tried to wreck this place, though. It’s so beautiful.”

“Dunno if he is. Don’t care.” Hanael watched the guy try to struggle out of the pond, foiled by the muddiness of the banks and the sopping wet leather of his boots, jacket and motorcycle chaps. The water was stagnant and didn’t look clean. Flecks of duckweed covered his black gear like neon green polka-dots. “But he won’t be hanging around here dressed like that; it isn’t warm enough for wet pyjamas.”

The guy slipped again, the curses flying out of his mouth churning the air into mud.

“This is a good time for a quick getaway.”

The four of them took off together, laughing, Rafe leading the way. It was rough going with all of them carrying back packs. Once they pelted past the Temple of Music, they stopped to catch their breath and make sure they weren’t being followed.

“I’m Denise,” the short, plump woman said. “And this is my friend, As—”

“Joanne.” The tall woman shot a scowl at her, then stuck out her hand with a smile. “The name’s Joanne.”

“How’z’it shakin’?” Confused, Hanael smacked his palm against her’s like he’d seen some guys doing.

His partner shook her hand properly and told them their names. They decided to go for breakfast together, and as they meandered through winding pathways by the lily pond and the Conservatory of Flowers, then up Oak Street until they reached Ashbury, they chatted.

It was mostly Denise, who broadcast a bubbling, burbling nonstop monologue that made Hanael dizzy and took his breath away, “—we have a line on a yellow school bus exactly like the one the Merry Pranksters used — if we gather enough people, then we can all share the cost of gas in order to drive to New York, because this concert is going to be even groovier than the Monterey Pops.”

It took his breath away because, even though he didn’t have a clue what she was talking about, he couldn’t believe she could say so much without taking a pause. So he reflexively inhaled a long, hissing breath for her every time she came to the end of one of her sentences. Then he would hold it until she came to the next.

“And so we’re looking for short-term jobs, anything really — cleaning, looking after children; Assu- … er, Joanne’s a good typist, and I’m a really good cook — so we can earn enough money to buy this thing and—”

He tried not to notice the peculiar looks the group started giving him.

“—Those old school buses are excellent for sleeping in and keeping all our stuff dry while we’re there — except we need to find a driver, and, well, you wouldn’t know where we would happen to find one, would you?”

Hanael nearly burst with the exhale, as Rafael pushed the bridge of his horned-rim glasses up his nose and verified, “Someone who can drive a bus?”

“Yeah.”

“To the Woodstock Music Festival in New York?”

“Yeah.”

“’Fraid not, but I can ask around.”

“Oh, we would appreciate that ’cause it’s so much harder than just drivin’ a car—” long, deep inhale, “And it would be great if they had some mechanical know-how, too, but the trip will be an amazing way to see the country—”

“Hang on, I’ve got to interrupt here.” Rafe stopped her. “Hanael? What are you doing?”

“Um, nothing?” Hanael breathed out, noisily. “Breathing?”

Rafe closed his eyes as though he was getting a headache. “Yes, so I gathered, but is there a reason why you’re breathing that way in particular?”

“Um, no?”

“Because you do realize that it makes you look like a very special sort of village idiot?”

Hanael couldn’t argue with that.

“You aren’t exactly an all-American boy, are you?” Joanne changed the subject.

“It’s that obvious, huh?” Hanael blew out his cheeks noisily. “And here I thought I was doing such a good job of blending in.”

Rafe snorted.

“I just got back from India not too long ago. Until a few months ago, I was a Buddhist monk, living in a monastery away-way-off in the high, high mountains.”

“Yeah, right,” Rafe said.

Hanael stared at him, his smile fading a little. He circled a bare toe in the dust on the path, unsure of what to say. He’d never had someone outright not believe him before.

“You’re serious?” Rafe suddenly realized. “You really were?”

“Not a very good one,” Hanael smiled sheepishly. “Especially bad on the whole scripture-studying business. I have no idea why they said I was a Tulka. Crazy, huh?”

“A what?” Denise asked, and then considered what sort of answer he might give her. “Never mind. Anyway, whatcha doin’ here in America?”

When she wanted to, she had a way of getting straight to the point.

Hanael took special note of that, since he wasn’t sure he wanted to divulge why he’d been sent back to the States yet. “Yeah, well, that’s a long story.”

“This is all kinda new to you, huh?” Denise continued. “I didn’t think white guys could be Buddhist monks—”

“For Pete’s sake, Jodie,” Joanne protested. “Will you please think before you open your mouth?”

“I didn’t know! It isn’t a common thing to see at all,” Denise cried. She put a hand on her hip and said, “And who’re you calling Jodie?”

“It’s okay. It’s okay.” Hanael wanted to stop the argument quickly. “I was born in the States originally. It’s just that I lived most of my life overseas.”

Joanne looked relieved for a diversion. “We’re all ears.”

So Hanael started telling them.

“Wait,” Joanne interrupted his account of the monastery he had tried to set up at Mount Shasta. “You walked away from your own forest acreage? Don’t you realize what people are doing to get back to the land?”

“Back to the land?”

“Yeah, you know, livin’ close to nature, buildin’ their own cabins, growin’ their own food.”

“Where I was, the land was pretty poor.” Hanael frowned, thinking back. “Even though the soil was rich, there wasn’t a whole lot of it. B’sides, a spiritual temple has to be built up from the inside out. A group of people hafta create it out of some kinda common will and purpose first, and I didn’t have that. Most of the people who came just wanted to—I dunno … . ” Hanael wasn’t sure how to read their silence: if they knew and accepted what he meant, or if they just thought he was weird, or both.

Awkward, he scratched behind his ear. At Mount Shasta, he seemed to recall clearing out a lot of empty beer bottles every morning that weren’t his. Of the few people who had joined him there, it seemed like they were always running off to smoke pot — not that he minded, but he specifically remembered giving one young woman the task of weeding some garden plots, and she would take about three or four minutes for every weed. It took her an hour to clear out enough space for two plants. “The place required a lot of work —too much for me to do alone.”

“What do you like about becoming a Westerner again?” Joanne asked.

“The clothes aren’t very comfortable, but they sure attract a lot less attention.” Most people shunned him when he had wandered around in the maroon or yellow-orange robes, like he was a wild-eyed fanatic raving about the end of the earth. The approval he did attract wasn’t the sort he wanted: a little too ardent — not naïve, exactly, because it was too wilfully blindly something-or-other that he couldn’t quite put his finger on, except that it felt embarrassing and oogie-googie. “I couldn’t stand to wear a dark suit and tie. I think that these clothes I’m wearing—” light cotton pants, a folk-style shirt, sandals and woolen poncho, “They feel nicer, cooler and easier.”

“Is there anything else you like?” Denise asked.

“Well, barbequed meat is tasty — especially steak and burgers, although pork, chicken and shrimps are fine, too.”

“Do you mean to tell me you’re eating animal flesh? I thought you Buddhist guys were all vegetarians.”

“Yes, I have to say that I felt too sorry for the animals afterwards. It left a heavy pit in my tummy. It’s the first time in my life I’ve ever tasted animal protein, maybe in many lives. Now that I have, there was no need to repeat that experiment.”

“Anything else?” The girls were giggling.

“I really like the wines the growers around here make, the sweet, sparkly, fruity ones that taste good chilled. They added the perfect afterglow to a day spent in the sunlight, surfing.”

“You surf, too?”

“Yeah.”

“What else?”

Hanael paused. He didn’t think he should tell them about how, after one sunny day that he had spent surfing and drinking light, crisp, fruity wine, he had ended up prone over a large driftwood log with his pants pulled down, and discovered that he really enjoyed being sodomized, repeatedly, often, and none-too-gently.

Afterward, as he had lain, spent and used, gunk dripping down his thigh, he felt one of the guys crawl between his legs and take his dick into his mouth, a sort of reward for offering them the use of his bum. He had firmed up nicely at the soft, wet suction, but it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t until the guy started fingering his bottom that he came, instantly and explosively.

After that, there was absolutely nothing Hanael loved more in the world than men playing with his ass. It was as much as he could do to contain his arousal as they opened him up with oil and toys. He would let them spank or paddle him since it sent exciting ripple effects up his spine, and they seemed to like him bent over their thighs, squirming, writhing, grinding and bumping against their hips with each smack. Most of all, he loved it when someone with a very big cock ploughed it into him. It was the pounding that he craved. The feel of come dripping down the inside of his thighs afterward was the only balm he needed. The sting of ocean saltwater cleansing overstretched tissues was heaven. He so loved the sensation of aching, bruised muscles as he drove away, that he would wriggle around trying to find the positions that twinged most, and could come from those twinges alone.

Sex with guys, who knew?

Just at that moment, thankfully, they walked up to the coffee house — glowing like a sugarplum castle in the bright morning sunshine, its Victorian gingerbread trim decked out in candy pinks, peaches, mauves and mint greens. Hanael didn’t have to try to divert attention from potentially dangerous subjects for conversation anymore. Everyone was so much more interested in Rafe’s promise of a good breakfast.

The coffee-house run by Rafe’s friend was much like other establishments slowly taking over the old turn-of-the-century flophouses and pawn shops that had blighted the Panhandle district since the last war. It occupied the main floor of an old house next to a head shop called ‘The Bong with the Luminous Nose,’ and decked out with psychedelic colours and a sign that featured Tenniel’s hookah-smoking Caterpillar from _Alice in Wonderland_. The smoke from sandalwood joss-sticks which drifted through its doors was stronger than anything Hanael had smelled at the monastery, even during the height of Wesak. On the other side was a bookstore drolly named ‘Das Kapital Letters, Secondhand and Antiquarian Books.’

Unlike most of the turn-of-the-19th-century houses along the street — those spared from the Great Earthquake and subsequent firestorm, not to mention encroaching industrial expansion — this group of three shops was set back a few yards from the road. So there was room for people to gather in front of them, and boy, did they gather!

_“‘There must be some kinda way outa here,’”_ Hendrix riffed over the head shop’s exterior loudspeakers. _“Said the joker to the thief.”_

They had to step around people sitting on the front stairs. Most of them were young women in long, flowing cotton dresses stitched with ribbons and embroidery. One of them was braiding leather strings decorated with feathers and beads into another’s hair. Another was reading beat poetry out loud in between nibbles from a humongous date square, while a boy in a suede jacket with a long fringe and a beaded Native Indian headband banged on a set of bongo drums. A collection of handmade pottery mugs had already accumulated at their feet.

“I’m going inside, anyway; do you mind?” Rafe asked one of the girls as he picked up cups.

She shifted over to let him pass, ignoring the question, intent on beats and bongos.

Inside, a large, open space was sprawled with antique hand-turned chairs and tables and groups of faded old couches and comfy armchairs. Thick plank flooring was covered with worn Persian carpets and a jungle canopy of plants in hanging baskets was strung off a candy-colored, pressed-tin ceiling. Chunky and fortifying baked goods, all made — a sign indicated — without refined white flour or sugar, covered a long counter at the back and a domed copper espresso steamer filled an entire corner, topped with a brass eagle with outstretched wings. A distinctly herbaceous smell emanated from the kitchen.

Serge turned out to be a serious and grounded young man. His hair fell to his shoulders and was tidily trimmed and clean. He wore a black full-length waiter’s apron, and his arms were full of trays and dishes.

“Have a seat,” he called over his shoulder. “Be with you in two secs.”

They found an empty couch with two armchairs and an old coffee table. Joanne and Rafe snagged the armchairs and Denise curled up at one end of the sofa.

Serge had a new bus-boy — ‘boy’ being the operative word. The guy was scrawny and beardless, with big brown eyes and skin that looked like a baby’s. His straight black hair was fixed in a thin, tight plait that dangled like a fishhook between his shoulders. His apron, ordinary in size for a normal man, was so big on him that only multiple folds at the waist kept him from tredding on the hem. The shadow in his eyes reassured them that he truly wasn’t a kid. His arms, under his white t-shirt, were wiry, too, with well-defined delts, biceps and triceps — adult male arms, tattooed with Jolly Jokers and Jumping Jacks.

“Can I get you guys started on something?” he asked.

“I’ll take three flat white cappucinos,” Hanael ordered immediately. “With a side shot of espresso.”

“That explains so much,” Joanne muttered.

Rafe openly checked out the new guy. “Who’re you?”

“Gentry,” the kid said. “Although I’d prefer if you just called me Gus because Gentry is a weird name. Serge needed a helper.”

“Serge needs a lot of helpers.” Rafe sucked on a tooth. “Have you been through the lunch rush yet?”

“No, I was taken on just last night.”

“Oh?” Rafe’s eyes narrowed.

Hanael finally sat down. The springs under his side of the couch had caved in long ago, and from the moment he planted his buttocks on the cushion, it started to sink until he was almost completely swallowed. The others were too busy to notice. Joanne had rolled her own cigarette from a package of Drum Tobacco, and Denise kept bumming drags off of it, flicking the ashes off the tiers of her long purple, mauve and pink cotton skirt from India. Rafe was busy inspecting the chalkboard menu.

By the time Serge finally came over, order book in hand, Hanael was truly stuck.

“So, ladies, how was the love-in?”

“Ladies?” Joanne said, passing her cigarette over to Denise.

Serge’s eyes flicked up from his pen and notepad for the first time and settled upon Hanael.

“Hi!” Hanael tried to rise to his feet, but from deep within his sinkhole, could only manage a strange little spasm of the arms and feet.

Serge’s face was like stone.

“Rafael, baby?” He turned to his friend. “Might I have a word with you for a sec?”

“Mm?” Rafe looked back from the menu. “Sure.”

“In the kitchen, please.”

Rafe got up and followed him out of the room.

For a moment, the room seemed to hold its breath while the reel-to-reel deck switched from the lyrical Genesis to a growling Joe Cocker, _“Woman of the country now I found you, longin' in your soft and fertile delta, And I whisper sighs to satisfy you're longin', for the warmth and tender shelter of your body.”_

“What do you suppose Raffikins is in trouble for?” Denise clapped her hands over her mouth, eyes dancing.

“Don’t be a bore.” Joanne exhaled a string of smoke.

Everyone heard Serge loud and clear when his voice rose, “No, I don’t have a problem with that. I just can’t believe you brought him here. How do you suppose that’s supposed to make me feel?”

At that, Joanne let out a low whistle. Hanael felt like a bug about to be squished under the directness of her scrutiny. The sofa-trap wasn’t helping.

“Your coffees, sir.” Gus started to set down an array of pottery cups on the table. He may have been short, but from the size and heft of the tray, it was clear he was strong.

Flustered, Hanael unsuccessfully struggled to free himself from the man-eating sofa. As Gus knocked over one of the coffees, Joanne doubled over.

“I’m so sorry, sir.” Gus dropped a towel over the spill, and taking pity on him, finally grabbed a flipper and started pulling. Hanael popped free and plopped his bottom down in Rafe’s vacant armchair. He started nursing a capuccino, enrapt as the girls started to squabble.

“I don’t need extra cooks and bottle-washers that badly.” Serge startled them all by suddenly rejoining them, although he addressed his comment to Rafe who was following him.

Both Denise and Joanne looked freshly slapped.

“Was that what you were talking about?” Denise blurted.

“It’s up to you, ladies.” Rafe leaned over Serge’s shoulder. “I put your names in. Are you going to grow up and behave yourselves? Or will you be looking for work somewhere else?”

Denise and Joanne exchanged a look.

“Terms?” Joanne’s eyes grew squinty.

“Six to four with a half-hour rotating lunch break during the slow spell between nine and ten-thirty, and two fifteen minute coffee breaks also during lag times. Sundays are off, and you can each choose another day off, as long as it isn’t on the same day, and doesn’t fall on a Friday or Saturday. Upstairs, the place is partitioned like a rooming house. You girls can share a bedroom and toilet with shower.” Serge counted off the details on his fingers, “Everyone is expected to pitch in with the cleaning and upkeep. And your meals are on the house.”

“Wages?” Joanne asked.

“Sorry. All I can provide at this time is room and board.”

“That won’t work.” Joanne said flat-out. “We’re trying to buy a bus so we can get to Woodstock.”

Serge laughed. “Do you plan to camp out in Golden Gate Park all summer? Do you know how much rents cost in this city? What about utilities, taxes, food, laundry? What sort of work did you think you’d be doing for that kind of mullah?”

“I don’t care. I’m a good worker, and I’m not inhibited.” Joanne stuck out her chin. Her show of bravado didn’t convince anyone.

“Don’t be ridiculous!” Serge brushed it off. “This is the best offer you’re going to get. But, tell you what: work hard to make this place a success, and I’ll pay you wages and buy you a couple of bus tickets to the festival. And you’ll have a job and place to come back to afterwards, if you want. But no promises! I’ve got to make a proper go of this first.”

“What will we have to do?” Denise asked.

“You’ll help me in the kitchen with prep and cooking.” Then he pointed to Joanne, “She’ll be front-of-house, service and cleaner. Gus helps out with service, busses and washes dishes. Rafe handles the bookkeeping and marketing.”

The girls exchanged another look.

“And I need someone else,” he turned to Hanael. “For odd jobs like carpentry, fixing the sinks and lights, painting, keeping the place shipshape. And there’s a garden in the back yard which needs tending.”

“Me?” Hanael pointed at his own chest.

“Rafe tells me you’re a Buddhist monk.” Serge said this as though that forgave everything. “You haven’t got a place to stay either, do you? So share a room with Gus.”

With that, he walked off to serve some newcomers.

“Does he know Hanael’s taken a leave of absence from his vows?” Joanne murmured under her breath to Rafe.

“No,” he hissed back. “I figured discretion was the better part of valour.”

“It’s entirely permissable, anyway,” said Hanael, who overheard them, but wasn’t on the same page at all. “In the Vajrayani sect.”

“That isn’t the point, but never mind!” Joanne whispered. “Just keep your leave of absence under your hat, okay?”

Hanael looked upset. The whole point of taking a leave from his vows was to be honest to his true self. To act like a monk meant he’d be doing exactly what he’d done before: pretending. “I can’t go against my spirit.”

“I know. I know.” Joanne rolled her eyes. “It’s just … you’ll get Rafe kicked out, and we’ll lose this opportunity. So just play along long enough until he finds out we’re worth keeping, okay?”

“But all I wanted was breakfast,” Hanael said. “Why is this falling to me? I never asked for a job.”

Three faces turned to him, expressions pained.

“Okay, I see your point.” Rafe finally cut him some slack. “Can you at least forget what we spent last night doin’? It would be a big help, since the guy thought he and I had an exclusive thing. I know that makes me a jerk, but I didn’t know. I thought I was a free agent.”

Hanael thought about this. “You want to be with this guy?”

From the corner of his eye, he could see Serge’s back straighten slightly.

Rafe rubbed the back of his head. His eyes were trained, unseeing, on the opposite wall, where a framed Alphonse Mucha print stretched almost from the floor to the ceiling.

“Great!” Denise clapped, bouncing on her end of the couch. The ancient springs chirped like crickets. “When do we start?”

“Right now,” Serge walked up. Hanael could see from his expression that all was good with his world. He just wasn’t sure if it was all that great in his.

 

**Wednesday, One Week Later, 4:59 pm**

 

Hanael hadn’t been much good at being a monk, or setting up a monastery, or at any other job besides the mindless business of hauling bricks. He wasn’t that great at being a handyman, either. It wasn’t intiative that he lacked; it was the eye for seeing what needed doing — no doubt connected to the feeling that he wasn’t supposed to be there, doing the same old thing he’d tried to do on Mount Shasta, except without the meditations, chanting, and rituals.

Even after everyone else had settled into routines, Serge had to show him everything; explain all the steps two or three times; and make lists, which drove the café proprieter even crazier, since he was already crazy-busy enough. Rafe finally warned him to cool it, that he was basically asking for slave labour anyway. So Gus took the lead with the tough jobs, anything that required a wrench, drill, and mental acumen. Hanael collected and washed dishes, swept and dusted, tended the back garden and watered the front flower boxes. Simple things he managed quickly and well, so that he often ended up leaning on a broom, smoking a cigarette, and chatting with whoever wandered in.

That section of Ashbury was a busy street where people loved to congregate. The coffee shop often attracted crowds and was almost never empty, especially with the bookstore situated at hand. Hanael was a popular guy — except with the owners of the head shop to the left.

It wasn’t that he didn’t try. One evening, after a long, hot afternoon, while he and Gus assembled new café tables with umbrellas in the front, and Denise came out with a pitcher of drinks, Hanael noticed them. They were locking up, and getting ready to leave. So he waved, “Hi, how ya goin’?”

There were three of them, all men — one of them wiry and thin with a creepy smile, who snapped on a piece of gum as though it spoke for him, which made it the most insolent piece of gum Hanael ever heard. The second, a muscular ox of a man, just scowled, ignoring him.

The third one was completely unlike the other two. He seemed hyperactive and couldn’t stand still. His whole body was swinging and bopping to some inner rhythm, like there was music goin’ on his head all the time.

“Hey, man, how’zit groovin’? D’you just start workin’ here?”

“That’s right. Just last week.”

“You like’ it?”

“Just super! It’s a happ’nin’ place!”

“Got that right. Been in our shop yet?”

“Not yet, but I’ll make a point of stoppin’ by.”

“Look forward to it. Name’s Chico, ask for me.”

The other two guys had finished closing up the shop. The big one barked something out, like someone commanding a dog to heel.

“Gotta go, man. Catch ya on the flip!”

“Dig that?” Hanael mentioned, as they walked away without a word. “What’s their problem?”

Gus glanced at their backs. “I’ve been picking up bad vibes, too. Don’t know what their hang ups are.”

Denise grumbled something as she poured iced tea into tall glasses and handed it over. The only words Hanael caught were, “… think you’re a buncha …”.

Gus choked on an ice cube.

Denise continued to beadle the unfriendly neighbours until they disappeared around the corner. Serge had just come out of the coffee shop to get a breath of fresh air and see how things were progressing when she said, “Maybe they’re constipated.”

Serge tripped on the stairs, and Rafe, who could hear everything, stuck his head out the office window upstairs, set up in the bedroom where he and Serge slept, and called, “Whoa, sister, rein in those doggies! You’re scaring the natives.”

After he recovered, Gus wheezed, “I see guys in khakis and fatigues goin’ in there a lot, some with dog-tags.”

Serge looked serious. “Marines from Fort Mason?”

Gus shrugged. “Or maybe vets?”

“Their vibes can’t be all bad then.” Hanael perked up.

Serge and Gus stared at him, waiting; they knew it was coming.

“I like dogs,” he shrugged.

The barest riffle of an evening breeze blew off the Bay and played through the ginko leaves.

Serge finally deciphered it. “Marines from Fort Mason and vets from _’Nam, Viet_ nam, where we ship all our … the Vietnam _War?_ — Veterans, not veterinarians.”

Hanael looked confused. “What do veterans have to do with dogs?”

“Who said—? I don’t know what …” Serge’s mouth dropped open. “Do you mean ‘war dogs’? Slang for soldier?”

Hanael looked even more confused. “What does that have to do with doggies and their licenses?”

From upstairs, they could hear Rafe killing himself.

Serge took a valiant stab. “Dog tags, perhaps? The little metal identification tags soldiers wear on that chain around their necks?”

Hanael still looked confused.

Rafe, sensing the need to interrupt, called down again. “Serge, I need you to tell me what this receipt was for.”

As Serge walked back inside, Hanael turned to Gus. “I know they sometimes eat dogs in Korea. Is that why we’re shipping them to Vietnam?”

**Wednesday, 12:59 am**

It was in the middle of the night and he was surrounded by nature, the steady sound of ocean breakers pulsing against the shore, the smell of salt and algae in the air, the cool refreshing air off the water. Then he rolled over and stuck his hand in something wet.

Muzzy with sleep, he wondered if he hadn’t sealed the cap on his water carrier properly the night before, and whether it was worth getting up to do something about it. His bed felt so nice.

Quite suddenly, something picked up the van and carried it along for several yards. Panicking, he threw off his covers, leapt off his mattress and landed … on dry floorboards, not in the inches of water that had seeped into his van. It took a few minutes for his pulse to slow down and his heart to steady itself. He was safe in the bedroom he shared with Gus above the café. The tide was nowhere near him.

After he calmed down, Hanael went to the bathroom to lighten his bladder. In the dark, a large vehicle rumbled down the alley and, with the hiss and squawk of hydraulics, stopped directly behind the neighbours’ shed. Curious, he hopped up on the toilet seat and peered out the leaded glass window. Two strangers got out of the cube-van and walked around to the fence. They were met by the two unfriendly owners of the head shop. Chico was nowhere to be seen. Hanael heard the van’s back door being quietly slid open, followed by even more rumbling, muffled bangs and curses.

The window next to Hanael’s bed offered a better view, so he stepped down and scurried back. When he got there, he discovered all five of the café’s employees had taken over prime real estate on his blankets to gawk. Denise, Joanne and Gus all clutched part of the sill while Serge and Rafe peered over their heads.

“’Scuse me.” He poked his head into the scrum, and then used it as a wedge to wriggle his torso and shoulders through the crowd. The bed springs stressed and complained alarmingly.

As Rafe shuffled over to make room for him, Joanne muttered, “No way that’s drugs.”

“How can you be sure?” Serge asked.

“In one big box like that?”

The four men wrestled a wooden crate the size of two upright pianos down a ramp out the back of the van. They were trying to do it quietly, but it clearly weighed over a ton, and there was only so much room they had to maneuver.

“What do you think?” Serge asked Rafe. “Military hardware? Think they’re robbing the supply depot at the base?”

Everyone turned to look at Rafe. Even in the shadows, Gus’ eyes looked like saucers. Rafe’s face, comparatively bright in the streetlamp’s full white reflection, looked like he was chewing on something nasty. “How would I know?”

“Those don’t look like military issue boxes,” Gus contributed. That raised a lot of eyebrows, which caused him to blush. “Which isn’t to say they didn’t re-package it.”

“Duck, quick!” Joanne hissed, reeling back and bumping against Serge’s nose. “Get down! Get down!”

A strong flashlight beam strobed across the far edge of the ceiling, first through one window, then the other. Breaths were held as the flash zipped back and beamed steadily against the wall, as though their movements had been detected and someone was double-checking.

Rafe started laughing.

“What’s so funny?” Denise asked, suppressing a yawn.

“Do you know how stupid this is?”

She looked blank. At that hour, after such a busy workday, they were all looking a bit sleepy.

“Since when have we lost the right to look out our own windows at night?”

“I know what you mean,” Serge said, rubbing his eyes. “But it isn’t a question of rights. If it was, since when have the suspicious neighbours lost the right to unload their deliveries at any hour, right? We’re doing this because we’re snooping, and until we get a better sense of what those guys are really up to, it’s better to keep our snooping quiet.”

“If we want this sort of night-time activity to stop,” Hanael said, “all we have to do is turn on that lamp on my night table.”

“If you want to take the risk that they won’t come after us.” Serge put a hand on his wrist, stopping him mid-reach. The touch was gentle, though, more of an invitation to a second thought, than a restraint. “The thing is, because we don’t know what they’re up to, we have no idea what they’ll do if they think we’re watching them.”

“They’ll try and do a better job of hiding, of course.” Rafe stuffed his words with a fat yawn, which made them barely understandable.

“Or they might try and send a warning. Or they might decide to get rid of us,” Serge replied. “This place is open to the public most of the time. Do you really want to take that chance?”

The flashlight beam wavered and flicked away at that moment. There was a sigh of relief from the others.

Hanael cautiously poked his head back over the sill. The box had disappeared, the ramp was being loaded up, and the owners were discussing things with the driver. In a few seconds, the driver and his passenger got back in the vehicle, started it back up and drove off. “Show’s over, anyway.”

As the others shambled across Hanael’s bed, finding places to recline, pulling the covers every which way, Serge asked Gus, “What do you think it was?”

Gus looked thoughtful, as he hunkered down under the footboard — too tired to sit up. “Maybe they’re smuggling drugs in with the paraphenalia they sell. They do seem to carry a lot of imported stuff from the Far East. Maybe they’re bringing in raw opium.”

A mental image flashed though Hanael’s mind of bricks tucked in with brass Ganesha and Shiva statues, the smell disguised by boxes of incense and essential oils. It would be a piece of work for a customs agent to pick through boxes and boxes of silk and cotton clothing. But this box had been something else.

“Or given their usual stock, they might be dealing another sort of contraband,” Gus said.

“Like?” Joanne asked.

“Asian treasures, maybe,” he explained. “Jewellery and art stolen from palaces, ivory carvings, rhinocerous horn cups, tiger pelts, carpets, statues and sacred objects looted from temples and monasteries, stuff smuggled out of the Asian Peninsula through some of the more lawless areas. Spoils of war fetch enormous prices on the black market. That box was about the size and weight of a temple figure, some sort of seated Buddha or Tara in a lotus, or maybe a classical group of dakinis.”

Hanael frowned. Something didn’t feel right, although he thought that Gus was probably right about the shop fencing stolen artifacts. He couldn’t put his finger on what was bothering him.

“But the stuff in their shop is so cheesy.” Joanne’s nose wrinkled. “No discerning collector would be caught dead in there.”

“How do you know?” Denise kicked her. “Don’t be such a snob!”

Joanne instantly kicked back, and it looked like they were about to get into a kicking fight, until Serge rapped on their knees and told them, “This is your first eviction warning.”

“Enh.” Joanne was too tired to argue.

“But what excellent cover, hey?” Rafe said. “They could hide stuff in plain sight because nobody would suspect such a junky place would contain actual treasure, and the junk itself is a legitimate shipment. It could sit there mixed in with the other crap until the opportunity came up to offload it at auction.”

“Important art would never make it to a public sale,” Gus said. “I doubt they would take the risk of bringing without agreements with a specific collector already in place: ‘Here, for the right price, we’ll steal this and this and this for you.’ Something like that.”

“How do you know so much?” Joanne asked him.

“I don’t. I’m guessing.” Gus blushed again. “The more I think about it, the more improbable it seems. The place attracts enough attention just from being the type of shop it is.”

And that put the finger on what was bothering Hanael.

“If it is that sort of art, it might not be for sale,” he said, more to himself. “Otherwise they would just bring it in with the junk, not tiptoe around at night like evil clowns.”

“What are you talkin’ about?” Joanne yawned. “Of course it’s for sale. Why else would anyone go to the trouble of stealing treasure?”

“Maybe it isn’t anything at all,” Rafe said, sleepily.

“Middle of the night?” Joanne mumbled, as if that meant something.

Nobody answered.

The puzzle kept Hanael’s mind busy for quite awhile. By the time he realized that he wasn’t going to figure it out, everyone had curled up and drifted off on his bed.

“Hey, don’t fall asleep here!” He shook someone’s shoulder. The only response was a faint groan and unintelligible complaint.

As best as he could, he tried to wriggle his way under the covers, tricky business since he was jammed between Serge — who was being spooned by Rafe — and the wall, and other people’s legs were interlaced with the sheets.

There was something nice about the thought of sleeping together like that in a big pile. He’d be sleeping snug against Serge, and he was hungry for someone’s touch, to feel the warmth of another person’s body, even if it didn’t come with affection. Tony-the-Riveter’s image flashed into his brain for a second. Ruefully, he wondered if he should’ve taken off from Los Angeles so soon. The thought of having Tony draped over his back the way Rafe was snug against Serge brought goose-pimples up all over his body.

Eventually, he gave up trying to lie down, hopped over the bed, pulled the blanket and pillow off Gus’ bed, and made his way downstairs. Twin beds were not designed to hold six, and there was a sofa without broken springs that had his name on it.

It was about three o’clock in the morning by the time Hanael started to snooze again. At five-thirty, there was a large bang and commotion. From the sound of things, the legs on his bed had given out and it had fallen to the floor.

Hanael rolled over and went back to sleep.

 

**Saturday, 2:59 pm**

 

Denise and Joanne took off a couple hours early to attend a Be-In hosted by Dr. Timothy Leary. It was still light out when they came back, singing at the tops of their voices, _‘I sat on her rug, drinking her wine, biding my time. We talked until two, and then she said, ‘it’s time for bed’,’_ and waltzing in circles around each other.

Hanael had been sitting in the front with a carafe of wine from the coffeehouse. Even though they were supposed to be closed, he’d violated all sorts of city ordinances by letting passersby — mostly acquaintances who’d come to the restaurant before — join him for a glass.

“Just say it’s a private party,” he waved off Serge’s objections. As soon as the sun started to go down, it got a lot quieter, and for the half hour before the girls returned, he’d sat alone, enjoying his wine, watching the sunset and admiring the flowers he’d tended.

When Joanne swung Gene Kelly-style around a lamp post and called out, “There’s Hanael! Hi-i-i-i Hanael!” — He knew something was off.

It turned out they were soaring on LSD and full of questions about Buddhism. Hanael didn’t mind, but he wasn’t a teacher and he didn’t think the methods that had been used on him in Rewalsar would work with them, especially since they hadn’t even worked on him.

Joanne, when she was high, turned out to be quite shy and affectionate under all her usual bluster. She latched onto his arm, tucked her head on his shoulder and wouldn’t let go. Denise was as effusive as ever, but much more touchy-feely, and kept hugging him and Joanne and giving them kisses on the cheeks, and squishing her plump breasts against his chest.

They kept talking and talking and talking. Hanael listened, but not really, since they seemed to be spouting a lot of stock-in-trade rationalizations, learned scripts about breaking down ‘the veils,’ jumping out of ‘the groove,’ looking beyond the physical, and putting the ego aside. They didn’t normally use that kind of language, so he was quite cautious about their authenticity.

“Look at these flowers.” He drew their attention to a passionflower vine that Serge had tried to coax up along the wall. “They’re gorgeous and so showy. You can stare at them forever, but they only bloom for a short time, here. Then all the petals fall off, and that’s it; they’re done. The rest of the time, they look like straggly weeds. But that bougainvillea over there? It’s not as spectacular and unusual, but it blooms almost all summer long. Just look at those bright pink flowers. And even when the flowers fall, they go dry and papery and still look cool.”

Hanael was trying to tell them something, but he wasn’t even sure if he understood his own analogy, or if it was even appropriate. The girls didn’t seem very interested.

“That’s nice.” Joanne yawned, and then mentioned that ripples of pleasure were moving through her body from her toes to the top of her head. After that, she asked him if he would like a blow-job.

“Hmm, ask me tomorrow or the next day, ’kay?”

Instead, Hanael waited with them through the long night as the drug wore off and they started coming down. That’s when they experienced some of the less seductive side effects.

For the next few days, they were as spaced out as he usually was but much more subdued, and to his dismay, seemed embarrassed and regretful. He was a little disappointed that they never came back to follow up on their request to learn about Buddhism, but they didn’t seem interested in attending another Be-In, either.

The next time they went on a day-trip together, it was to an arts commune in an old warehouse near the waterfront. They must’ve had fun, because they had rushed upstairs the moment they got back with a bunch of bags and boxes, and squirreled themselves away in their room for the rest of the weekend. The only sound that came out was Jethro Tull’s rendition of _Bourée._ Eventually, Hanael knocked on their door and found that Joanne had taken up macramé, and Denise was beading on a loom.

To Hanael, the whole incident now seemed funny and a little sad.

 

**Friday, 7:59 pm**

 

The weather had been dry for a couple of weeks, and all the planters and garden beds needed lots of watering. The bright sunshine was incongruous with the Moody Blues’, _Nights in white satin, never meaning to end; letters I’ve written, never meaning to send,_ looping over the head shop’s speakers, so Hanael escaped down a short level of stairs into the bookstore. The place looked interesting, and he’d always been curious about the scads of people that liked going in and out.

The door had a little Indian brass bell to announce the arrivals and departures of customers, but when he shut it behind him, the peace was palpable, like a wall of silence. He hadn’t experienced that level of tranquility since his arrival back in North America. It was such a relief, he sighed and immediately went into meditation.

Nor was he sure how long he had been in that state when he opened his eyes and jumped, startled by the shopkeeper who stood there, leaning against a smaller bookcase, smoking a cigarette, arms loosely crossed over his stomach, as he calmly waited for him to finish.

“I was wondering how long it would take for you to get here,” he said, then turned and walked away.

Piqued, Hanael followed him to the back of the store. There, he noticed prayer flags strung along the back wall.

“You’ve been expecting me.”

The shopkeeper offered him a cigarette and lit it. He was one of those deceptively youthful old people who looked around the age of sixty well into their eighties, white-haired, clear-eyed, and strong.

“Well, here I am.”

The guy nodded and shook his hand. “Bodhi De, but around others you can call me Alex, or Sandy, or Colonel Sanders. For some reason, kids like to call me that.”

“Kailasa, except here I’m called Hanael. You look like Colonel Sanders.”

They sat and smoked for awhile, until Sanders’ eyes narrowed and he observed, “You’re not ready to start a family, Rinpoche, so why are you really on leave?”

Hanael pulled the cigarette from out between his lips and exhaled a long stream. “The next Tertön King wasn’t about to wander into the mandala I created up north. It was time to take it on the road.”

“Where is the mandala, then?”

Hanael pretended not to hear the question. From a dish of paperclips on the desk, he started making a paperclip chain to avoid looking at his colleague.

Colonel Sanders wasn’t having any of it. He put his hand on Hanael’s arm, concerned.

All at once, everything that Hanael had been brushing aside — the fatigue, anxiety, sense of being overwhelmed by responsibilities, and uncertainty about what to do — came in a flood.

“I lost it, okay?” he snapped. “Except I haven’t because, of course, it’s all up here.” He waved the air above his head. “But the material version of it—”

Sanders waited.

Hanael’s shoulders sagged, defeated. “It’s at the bottom of the Pacific Ocean, somewhere off Big Sur.”

“You dropped the Sutra into the ocean?”

“Not exactly,” Hanael’s irritation hadn’t dissipated fully. When he looked at the Tulka’s face, he reconsidered. “Sort of. It drifted off.”

“A sand painting?”

“No.”

“Yahk butter carving?”

“No!”

Sanders looked thoughtful. “A more permanent substance, then.”

“Is that a problem?”

“Only if there’s a danger that someone who will abuse its power comes across it.”

Hanael nodded. “That is always a possibility, isn’t it? Maybe it’ll help the sharks find Shunyata.”

Even though he enjoyed the occasional cigarette, this one suddenly tasted foul. Just like the bookstore, a perfectly ordinary second-hand shop stacked everywhere with dusty smelling books, suddenly felt like all the shelves were going to topple their contents onto him. Just like the sunlight filtering in through the windows suddenly took on a yellow-brown shade, like it was shrouded in thick forest fire smoke.

His head lolled over. The weight of it felt too much for him to bear.

Sanders passed over an ashtray. “You need help with its retrieval?”

Hanael let his head loll over in Sanders’ direction so he could see his face. “I haven’t the faintest idea how to start — and I’m not sure it’s the most desperate and pressing concern just yet. If it’s at the bottom of the ocean, at least it isn’t going anywhere.”

“But you won’t be able to pass it along to your successor.”

“That isn’t a big concern just yet, either.”

“Good.”

They sat in silence for awhile. Hanael was surprised at how easily he could talk to this guy. He supposed it made sense if they had shared a few lifetimes. That had to make for a more comfortable vibe.

After awhile, Sanders asked him, “Were you looking for some reading material?”

The question shouldn’t have surprised him. He glanced over at the nearest shelf. There sat W. H. Auden’s _City without Walls_ , Ed Dorn’s _Gunslinger_ and _Gunslinger: Book II_ , and something which looked interesting by some guy named Gary Snyder.

“This sounds good.” He reached out and plucked the tiny volume off the shelf. “I’ll take it.”

“Ah, the _Smokey the Bear Sutra._ ” Colonel Sanders nodded. “Excellent choice.”

Hanael reached for his wallet.

“Although no substitute for the real thing.” The Colonel’s voice was unnecessarily pointy as he stuffed a bookmark into it and slipped it into a narrow paper bag. “Naturally.”

“Of course not.” Hanael sighed. There went that plan.

It was strange to walk outside into bright sunshine again; the bookstore had felt so cool and dark. The girls had set out some lunch on one of the tables and waved him over. As he walked towards them, he got a look down Ashbury towards the brilliant blue-green, sparkly Bay. The street was unusually quiet that day, which meant that it was impossible to miss the tall figure that was striding uphill toward the shop.

It was a day for surprises and Hanael was so surprised he just stood there, shock-still, just at the sight of Tony-the-Riveter walking up Ashbury.
    
    
            **III. Stardust, Golden, Back to the Garden**
          

Tony took awhile to be convinced it was destiny or some weird coincidence, not calculation and scheming, that stuck Blond Bricklayer at the center of this weird convergence, not just between them, but also between Tony and his sister, Joanne. He only dropped his doubts after Rafe, summoned from his ledgers, confirmed specially selected and discreetly edited details of the Golden Gate Park Love-in, and they synchronized perfectly with the girls’ story.

“How do you know Hanael?” Denise asked him right back. It sounded suspiciously like an accusation, and Tony heeded that suspicion.

“We used to work together at Francone’s shop.”

“I thought you said you were in the Himalayas.” Rafe stared at Hanael.

“I was.” When this looked like it wasn’t enough to convince him, Hanael added, “And after that, I was in Mount Shasta. And after that, I travelled around a bit. And after that I wound up in L. A. And while I was there … well, ex-monks gotta eat, so ex-monks gotta get jobs.”

“Ex-monk? So that’s why you had that weird six-armed thing in your van.” Tony suddenly remembered the oriental painting. This was all news to him, but it made sense.

“What thing?” Hanael looked surprised. “Oh, that. Right.”

“What were you doing in Hanael’s van?” Joanne asked.

“I — uh ….” Tony froze.

“

It seems there are a few things that need to be cleared up.” Serge had been listening very carefully and very attentively. “Let’s we finish up early tonight and have a few drinks at one of the local bars. Let’s discuss it there.”

 

**Friday, 6:59 pm**

 

Ashbury to Haight was full of traffic that night. There were peace demonstrators holding up signs, collecting signatures for petitions, selling buttons and blocking traffic. An impromptu band comprised of a bamboo marimba, one accoustic and one steel guitar and somebody with bongos and a Djembe strung around his neck, singing _I hear hurricanes a-blowin’. I know the end is comin’ soon. I fear rivers overflowin’. I hear the voice of rage and ruin. Don’t come around tonight, for it’s bound to take your life. There’s a bad moon on the rise._ Somebody had set up a barbeque and was selling skewers of roasted falafel. It was a big Hippie street party.

At the first place they hit on Haight, Serge knew the bouncers.

“Hey, Tyler, my man, what’s happenin’?” He slapped hands with a big guy dressed in a Mexican shirt, Apache beaded necklace and fringed suede jacket. Standing next to him was another guy. They were almost so identically dressed, the only way anyone could tell them apart was that Tyler was a little taller, a lot balder and the other guy was black. “Leon, bro! Howzit hangin’?”

They were waved through without needing to pay for the cover.

“I give them the odd soup-’n’-sandwich special or cuppa joe for free,” Serge explained. “They keep me up on what happens at night time and help me out when troublemakers start hangin’ around too close. For awhile now, they’ve been telling me some stories about the owners of the head shop next door. Seems like they’re into a lotta things.”

As they moved into the cavernous space, they were each handed an inflated balloon.

“What are these for, man?” Tony asked, baffled, but the hostess had wandered off.

“Beats me.” Serge said. “They look cool, huh? The group playing tonight are performance artists. Prob’ly part of the show.”

_“I cloud-nine when I want to.”_ Sly and the Family Stone piped over the house speakers. _“Hot fun in the summertime.”_

“Do they have anything to do with those?” Joanne pointed to a sideboard where samples of peyote and magic mushrooms were laid out like the ingredients to a witches’ brew.

“What do you think?” Rafe asked Serge, looking at the parcels of dried hallucinogens.

“I’ll pass.” Serge wrinkled his nose.

“Me, too.”

Joanne and Denise looked relieved that there was no pressure from the others to partake. As for Tony, he wouldn’t let anything that looked so disgusting near his mouth, even though he happily ate all kinds of different fungi in the Italian meals Mama Cosentino used to cook. Only Hanael felt a little disappointed. He wasn’t finished playing around with carnal pleasures just yet, although now that Tony was back on the scene, the appetite for other bed partners had cooled — a development he found as interesting and unexpected as the results of his other experiments.

Tony, to his frustration, was completely preoccupied with his sister. Hanael kept intercepting glances and little signs from him, however, which indicated he was waiting for the right moment to say something. Hanael had no idea if that was good or bad, but at least it was something. Since they had been surrounded by others since Tony showed up, the opportunity to find out hadn’t come up. He just had to sit tight until it did.

Gus, who possessed an uncanny knack of reading Hanael’s moods perfectly, offered to drop something with him. After a glance at Tony, who was holding a chair out for Denise like a regular gentleman, Hanael decided he wasn’t too attached to the idea either. He thanked Gus, who looked relieved.

They found a table near the front, sat down and ordered drinks. The stage was set up with a bewildering array of instruments, many of which looked like things a person might find in a mediæval torture chamber.

“That’s a Moog.” Rafe pointed out a huge, plywood box with a keyboard and more dials, levers, and buttons than the bridge of a battleship. “And, ah! — That’s a Theremin, and look at the size of those speakers.” He was floating off into geek heaven. “The output must be unbelievable.”

Serge reacted with alarm, “A quick question, baby: does unbelievable output translate into really, really loud?”

“Search me,” Rafe shrugged. “Depends if we’re gonna be listenin’ to King Crimson or Switched-On Bach.”

“This might not be the type of place we wanted, then,” Serge warned Tony.

They found out for sure a few minutes later when, after they started nursing their beers, the opening chords blasted from the band. The speakers created a wall of sound so loud that no individual sounds could be discerned — a buzzing, humming tremolo so thick, it sounded solid. The entire room vibrated, which was where the balloons were supposed to come in. Held between the palms, the music could be felt as vibrations. Through it, the drum kit could be distinguished from the guitars, synthesizers from voices — except none of their group were high, and they weren’t drunk; so this experience didn’t have the same effect on them as it seemed to have with others in the audience.

“The only thing I’m askin’ —” Tony tried to yell over the music at Joanne, “— is that you call Mom and Dad and let them know you’re safe and doin’ all right. They’re worried sick and, frankly, you owe them.”

“What?” She screeched back.

“You gotta call Mom and Dad.” He bellowed at the top of his voice, and was still barely audible over the booming speakers. “Let them know you’re okay.”

“No way, José!” She shrieked.

“All you hafta do is tell ’em you’re fine.”

“But you know it isn’t going to end there.” She smacked the table to emphasize the point. The sound waves were so overwhelmed, nobody heard it. The only thing that happened was the beers jumped a bit in their bottles. “They’ll wanna know where I’m stayin’, who I’m hangin’ with, what I’m doing.”

“What?” He cupped his hand around his ear.

“They’ll nag and scold and put me on a big guilt trip and go on and on. I don’t want it — any of it! I don’t wanna tell them.”

Tony got out of his chair and walked over. Using sign language, he motioned to Denise to exchange seats with him. She obliged.

“So, don’t tell them.” Tony bawled in his sister’s ear. “I never said you had to. Look, are you mature enough to stand up to them, or not? It’s killing them not knowing you’re fine. It’s like Dad aged ten years overnight. Whatever they did, was it so terrible that you can’t even talk to them for five minutes? Even if it’s just to let them know you aren’t coming home? You’re their daughter. They love you.”

“They’re in love with something they think a daughter should be. I’m not that person.”

“You don’t have to defend yourself. You don’t have to explain yourself — not even to me. You don’t have to get into anything else other’n tell ’em that you’re alive and well. That’s all they need to know.”

“Okay, okay!” Joanne held up her index finger. “One telephone call. One!”

“Great!” Tony threw his hands up with relief. He was sorta glad they had to yell just to be heard. That way, there was no energy left for yelling for other reasons.

“But I’m hanging up the minute they give me grief over not goin’ to school or church. And they’re not to know where I’m living and working; I don’t want them popping in for a surprise visit.”

“I’m hip with that.” Tony leaned back in his chair, then got up. “C’mon, let’s boogie.”

Joanne looked like she had suddenly found herself in a den with live tigers. “What? You mean, right now?”

“Let’s get it over with.”

“But I’m not ready!”

“It isn’t the sort of thing you get ready for.” He held out his hand. “It’s the sorta thing you get done with quickly and outta the way so you can move on.”

“They’re gonna be mad at me.” She shrank into her chair, suddenly acting small and childlike.

“No shit, but you already knew that, right?” He wasn’t having any of it. “And you already decided it didn’t matter, right?”

“Yeah.” She took a shaky breath, and got to her feet. “Okay, then.”

He put his big, warm hand in the spot between her shoulders to support her.

“We just need to use the phone,” he hollered over his shoulder to Serge. “We’ll be back in a few.”

The others, none of them, wanted to stay. So the others, all of them, followed them out, leaving behind half-finished beers and a five-spot to cover.

Outside, the setting sun was hidden behind the Presidio, but it wasn’t quite dark enough for the streetlights to switch on. Their head buzzed like hives of wasps had parked inside.

With a grimace, Gus pointed at the mortar in the building’s bricks. Riddled with cracks, the sheer volume of sound was managing to shake the building’s very foundations apart, something not even age, the Great Earthquake or steady traffic had succeeded in doing. Nearly fifteen minutes passed before they could hear each other again — faintly and only if they read lips at the same time.

A couple of blocks west, as Tony and Joanne peeled off to find a phone, the others went up some stairs over a place which sold threads to rich guys into a traditional cocktail lounge with the cutesy name ‘The Cable Car.’ The place was decorated sort of like a cable car, all red velvet, with brass fixtures, walnut wainscoting and tiffany lamps. The music was mellow — primarily Dusty Springfield, Shirley Bassey and Burt Bacharach — and there were a lot of sports jackets and Empire-cut dresses with nude lipsticks and beehive-doos wandering around. Still, it was quiet enough that they could hold a conversation, which was the whole point of finding a bar in the first place.

It must’ve been a slow night, because after a snooty appraisal of their clothing, the hostess took them to a table in a very dark corner. She scurried away quickly when Denise and Hanael started giggling as the Fifth Dimension’s, _“Up, up and away in my beautiful, my beautiful balloon,”_ started to play.

Gus and Rafe kept Denise amused by plying her with flamboyantly named cocktails like Golden Cadillac and Harvey Wallbanger, while Hanael annoyed the waitress by ordering water and Serge ordered wine.

It didn’t take long before the baleful looks they got from other customers started to wear on them. Even Serge, who was self-assured enough to feel comfortable anywhere, started feeling tee’d off.

“Snobby bunch here, aren’t they?” He clinked his wineglass to Hanael’s water glass.

Hanael giggled nervously.

Serge’s eyes narrowed, like he had him trained in his gunsights. “How well do you and Joanne’s brother know each other?”

Hanael took a mouthful of water and loudly crunched some icecubes into slush. “Define ‘know each other’, man?”

 

 

Outside, Tony broke a couple dollars into dimes at a soda fountain for Joanne, and they stepped into a glassed-in telephone booth and shut the door behind them. Joanne picked up the receiver, and was about to plug in some change, when he stopped her.

“So, remember: if they start askin’ you a buncha stuff or criticizing, all you hafta do is answer them like this: I’m fine. I’m safe. Nothing terrible has happened to me. Nothing terrible is gonna happen to me. I’m doin’ what I want. I don’t need anything. I’m okay. I’m gonna hang up now. I love you. Talk to you soon. Bye. Capiche?”

Joanne nodded. She didn’t look confident at all.

Tony put the receiver back on the hook. “Let’s try it out, first.

_“Assunta!”_ He cried in a strange falsetto. _“Oh sweet Mary and all the Heavenly choir, thank God you’re safe. We’ve been so worried. Your father’s on the verge of a heart attack.”_

She looked at him like he was crazy. He motioned at her for a response.

“It’s okay, Ma,” she replied, hesitant. “I’m fine.”

_“We even had to call the police, and your father tried to get them to find you and bring you home.”_ He signalled to Joanne.

“Aw, Ma, you didn’t. What were you thinkin’?”

Tony shook his head. “No, no. Like this: ‘It’s okay, Ma, I’m safe.’”

She stared at him like he was crazy.

“Come on. Stick to the script.”

“It’s okay, Mom,” Joanne parroted. “I’m safe.”

__

_“What were you doin’ hitchhiking all the way to San Francisco? A coupla young girls on their own like that. Have you any idea what could’ve happened to you? You coulda been raped and strangled and thrown on a garbage heap, like those girls in England.”_

&

“What’you talkin’ ’bout? You mean Jack the Ripper? Shi-i-i-it, man!”

Tony waited.

“It’s okay, Mom, nothing terrible happened to me.”

__

_“San Fransisco is such a crazy place. There are so many insane nutjobs and perverts there. What they could do to a sweet, innocent girl! They might drug you and, then, when you’re unconscious, take off all your clothes and snap photos of you for those horrible magazines.”_

“Nothing terrible’s gonna happen to me.” Joanne started to laugh. “Denise and I got jobs. We’re sharing a room. I’m doing fine.”

_“Have you any idea what you’ve thrown away by running off like this? You’re never gonna have another chance to have a graduation prom, or make your debut in society. The nursing and teaching colleges have very strict rules for young ladies you know.”_

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Tony! Who the frig has a debut anymore? You think I’m Julie Nixon or somethin’? And what makes you think even Ma gives a shit about that stuff?”

“Ah, ah, ah!” Tony tut-tutted.

With a baleful look, Joanne returned to the script. “I’m doin’ what I want, Ma.”

“Don’t flip out, ’cause that other stuff? Maybe it seems a little woowoo-Twilight Zone, but it just stands for whatever they say which needs that answer.”

“Let’s get on with it, ’kay?”

“Just one more: _“ Did that scallywag of a brother give you the suitcase I packed for you? A young woman can’t get very far in this world without her twinset and pearls.”_

“What the—? No, she didn’t.” Joanne looked aghast.

“Complete with First Communion pictures,” he nodded.

“I don’t want that stuff,” she protested. “What am I supposed to do with it?”

Tony shrugged. “Throw it away. Donate it to the Sally-Ann. All I care about is what you’re gonna say to Ma about it, which should be, ‘I don’t need anything.’ Can you say that for me, please?”

Joanne snarled the words at him.

“Thank you. That’s the best way of handling that, I think. Do you think you can manage this now? Or should we go over it again? Maybe we need to write it down?”

Joanne took a deep breath, took the phone, and started plugging it with enough dimes to place the long-distance call.

Tony stayed by her side the whole time. Only once, when her defensiveness was triggered by some remark they hadn’t covered in the play-acting, did he have to nudge her elbow and shake his head in a reminder not to stray and get into an argument. Fortunately, the operator interrupted to warn that she had only a minute left and needed to stick more money in if she wanted to continue. Joanne used that interruption to recover and get back to her automatic responses. Within those last few seconds, she brought the conversation to a close by using the excuse that she had run out of change, but she definitely loved them and they were not to worry about her. She would call back in a couple weeks’ time and let them know what was going on.

When the brother and sister finally slid the folding door open and stepped out of the booth, it felt like waves of fresh sea air rolled over them. Joanne whooped and threw her arms around Tony. He swung her around in a circle, narrowly missing a fire hydrant, before setting her down.

“Outta sight, baby!”

She quickly wiped the corners of her eyes, trying to make it surreptitious. “Yeah, I wasn’t lookin’ forward to that one little bit.”

**Friday, 10:59 pm**

After they wandered back, Tony detected a marked change in Serge. Before they left the balloon club, he had been polite but guarded and a little cool. Afterward, it was like there wasn’t anything too good for Tony. He was offered a job, a place to crash, food, tokes, introductions to some of the folk who lived and worked in the Bay area — anything he wanted.

“Mostly, I just need a place park the truck and campertop,” was Tony’s only idea.

“It isn’t the most pleasant spot in the world on account of all the garbage cans and compost bins, but you’re welcome to park it in my backyard, next to the shed.”

Tony was thrilled not to be stuck out on the street or trying to find a parking lot where he could sneak an extension cord into a spare socket.

 

 

_“I was born in a dump, My momma died, and my daddy got drunk,”_ Eric Burdon and the Animals wailed over his brand new clock-radio, a goin’ away present from his folks. It was the most impractical thing they coulda given him, since it stopped keeping time every time he unplugged the camper, and he had to constantly tune it to a new radio station, and he had no antenna; so if he was stuck in a hollow, the only thing he heard was a buncha squeals and crackles. _“He left me, to die a’cold, in the middle of Tobacco Road.”_

Tony reached over and turned it off.

As he laid out the foamies and sleeping bag for the night, he heard a quiet knock on the back door. It was a polite knock, not demanding, so he knew it wasn’t his sister. When he opened it and saw Hanael standing there, his heart did a funny hop-skip.

“Hey! Come in, come in.” His grin was almost big enough to split his face in two. “Was I ever glad to see you. I’ve got something of yours, which— _oophff!”_

Tony’s arms were filled, and he was staring down — a little stunned by the suddenness of it — into Hanael’s heavy-lidded eyes. He responded instinctively. Without a second thought or a second’s worth of hesitation, he bowed his head and covered Hanael’s lips with his, and then his mouth was full, too. It was primal, the most natural thing he’d ever experienced. The kiss turned the world soundless, motionless, as though everything stood still to let it mark that moment of time.

While they kissed, the air grew heavy and laden with humidity like the watergarden gallery in a botanical museum. Every breath was saturated with steam. Tony felt himself grow hard, felt the corresponding hardness and heat collecting in Hanael. Bodies pressed against the long lines of each other, they started to rock in synchronization.

When they pulled apart, panting, pumped and ready, Tony’s skin had collected moisture like a shower mirror. Tony laced his fingers through glossy waves of hair and pulled himself back in. He rolled his forehead over Hanael’s and planted small kisses across his smooth cheeks as they shared breaths. His lips buzzed.

“Hello,” he breathed, voice distant and unable to support the weight of sound.

Hanael smiled and slid down the length of Tony’s body, his hands skimming and stroking skin and muscles through the fabric of his shirt, until he ended up on his knees, his face pressed to Tony’s erection, through the fabric of his jeans. He flicked open buckles and buttons with frenzied impatience, unzipped the denim, reached in and … started to laugh. Tony was stunned. He couldn’t figure out what was so funny, and stood there, feeling like a complete tool, until it finally sank in. It was his underpants.

They were white and cotton and so clean they gleamed. They glowed, humming with light energy, like a Hallelujah chorus.

Hanael’s head dropped against Tony’s thigh. At first, Tony felt self-conscious and embarrassed. He started pulling away, but found his legs trapped in Hanael’s arms. That’s when he realized that it was just the pants and they hadn’t changed or diminished the attraction that Hanael felt for him. The guy’s way of releasing some of the tension that had become so thick between them could’ve used a little work, but he started to chuckle himself.

“Moms!” he said, as though that explained everything. When he realized it didn’t, he added, “She’s so worried I’m going to rain shame and humiliation down upon the whole family by getting in an accident and being carted to the hospital in dirty underpants, she packed a whole drawer of these for me. Never mind that if I’m in an accident that bad, the first thing to get soiled will prob’ly be the little boy pants — I’ve got enough to get me through the Apocalypse.”

“The Apocalypse!” Hanael ran his fingers over the length of Tony’s cock through the soft, soft cotton. “Are you sure?”

Tony rolled his eyes. The fingers felt so good, they robbed him of any snappy retort he might’ve dreamed up.

“Never mind, Tony-the-Riveter, there are far worse things than clean underpants.” Hanael gently lifted and pulled the elastic down, finally letting Tony’s cock out of its dazzling white cage.

“I was going to say something really clever about pants that got dirty without me,” Hanael said between long swipes of his tongue from the root of the shaft up to the tip. “But it just sounds stupid now, and I’m an asshole for laughing.”

He slipped the tip of Tony’s cock between his lips, gave it a nice long suck, and after slipping off with a pop said, “You’ve got a beautiful cock, Tony-the-Riveter. Did you know that? It’s big and silky and looks good enough to eat.”

“I—uh, I—unh,” Tony was not in a particularly clever frame of mind at that moment. “If you keep that up, it’ll all be over before it even starts.”

Hanael got up off his knees, planted a firm hand in the middle of Tony’s chest and pushed him until he sat back on his foamie, and commanded him to, “Strip!”

“What?”

“Like this.” Hanael systematically pulled off his clothes, revealing caramel-coloured skin and toned muscles. Water filled Tony’s mouth when Hanael slipped his jeans over his buttocks. He started yanking off clothes, letting them fly. The camper thunked as his boots hit the door. He almost lost couple of buttons off his denim shirt.

“I gotta let you know,” he told Hanael, his voice a little shaken with nerves, “I’ve never done this before. I don’t know what to do.”

“Don’t sweat it. It’s easy.” Hanael reassured him with a smile. “I knew that already, so I prepared everything myself beforehand. Normally, there would be a little more work involved.”

He plumped up some pillows in the middle of Tony’s foamie, spread a towel over them and then fished a jar of Vaseline out of his jacket pocket.

“Today, it’s as easy as getting a hotdog ready.” He scooped some of the vaseline out with his fingers, and started rubbing it all over Tony’s cock, making the skin slippery and easy to move. “First we cover it with ketchup, and then —” he got up on the bed and bent over the pillows, “—you slip it between the buns. Simple, huh?”

Tony gulped at the sight of Hanael’s ass. He hopped onto his knees, lined himself up, and finally, at long last, pushed himself in.

It was warm. It was close and soft and slick. It enveloped him completely. It was the best thing Tony had ever felt, his favourite thing so far. After he slid all the way in, it was as much as he could do not to shoot on the spot. To hold it back, he stopped and started counting very slowly.

“Are you all right?” he gasped.

“Yeah,” he heard. It sounded tight and gritted through teeth. “You’re just a little bigger than I thought, so could you just … Damn, move it!”

Tony moved it. Once he started moving it, he discovered that his newest most favourite thing to do was fuck Hanael’s pants off. He could’ve gone on all night and Hanael would’ve kept taking it, except at one point, things switched around.

Hanael stopped him, pulled himself off Tony’s cock, got him to sit in a loose cross-legged position, and then got on top of his legs and lowered himself onto Tony’s cock. Then he started fucking himself on it very slowly, while kissing Tony, also very slowly. Five—six—seventeen or eighteen strokes later, and Tony felt the sudden squeeze and rhythmic release, and the warm wetness spread between their stomachs as Hanael’s ass pulsed around his cock.

Tony held Hanael upright as all the muscles in his body seemed to melt and Hanael collapsed against him. He stroked the blond hair, and held him tenderly. Then, when the panting stopped, and the heartbeats slowed, he carefully lowered Hanael onto his back, hiked his legs over his shoulders, and pounded into him. After a minute, he felt everything grow tight and dark, and with a long, extended groan and a toss of the head that threw his long hair up over his back, he came, shooting deep into Hanael’s body.

He wasn’t sure how long he lay there, a dead weight between Hanael’s thighs. After a while, he was vaguely aware of fingers delicately stroking his hair.

“Sorry,” he mumbled thickly and rolled off. He spooned Hanael close, threw the sleeping bag over them and fell into a deep, deep slumber.

When Tony woke up, it was in the middle of chaos, nowhere near the camper or — from the look of things — San Francisco, or even the United States … or even the modern world. All around him, men with the faces of people he recognized from the coffeehouse were locked in life and death battles, not with guns, cannons, B52 bombers or napalm, but with swords, pikes, bows and arrows and — he was a little surprised to see it hadn’t yet involved sticks and stones. From the look of his uniform, he was supposed to be on one particular side of this battle, the vastly outnumbered unit that was fighting for their lives.

“Watch out!” A member of his combat unit yelled with a toss of the chin indicating something just over his shoulder. He had just enough presence of mind to flip his sword one-eighty in a sweeping arch under his arm as though rowing a canoe, impaling the fighter behind him who’d been setting up to slice off his head. In fact, it amazed him how natural and intuitively this sort of fighting came to him. As soon as he wrenched his sword free, he sliced it in another circle at waist height, cutting an adversary who was charging him from the back on the other side.

With the two enemies dispatched, he turned and quickly saluted the comrade who’d warned him, a tall fellow with a straight, blond hair cut at chin-length, and a face that he swore belonged to Hanael — except Hanael was a slender little guy. He didn’t have time to thing about it, though, but immediately jumped into another melée …

… And woke up for real at about a minute to three that morning, as a loud rumble sounded just outside the camper. The walls of the camper were so thin, it was like the disturbance was happening inside. The dreams of fighting all night long had left him almost as tired as when he went to bed, so it took him a while to wake up enough and figure it out, but some sort of large vehicle was moving up the alleyway and had stopped just past their driveway.

He felt a sudden coolness as Hanael slipped out from under the covers. That made him open his eyes.

A faint trace of streetlight filtered in past the light curtains. In the grey light, Tony saw Hanael had pulled one of the curtains aside and was peering out at whatever was going on.

“Hey, what’s going on?” Tony reached over and flicked on the light. “Come back to bed, you.”

Hanael, stark naked and caught in the bright yellow shine, dropped the curtain. He gave a funny, coy little kick, waggled his bum and covered his penis with his hands, as though there was something to hide.

Outside, someone called out a warning and, moment’s later, the loud truck drove away. Tony flicked the light back off.

“Is everything okay?” He asked, as Hanael crawled back under the covers.

“Everything’s fine.” Hanael snuggled into him and seemed to doze off, he lay so still, but when Tony got ready to roll over onto his other side a half-hour later, he noticed that Hanael’s eyes were still open — just for a second. At second glance, Tony thought he was seeing things. Whatever was bothering him, Hanael wasn’t ready to share.

 

**Saturday, 8:59 am**

 

Except, it turned out that several other things weren’t fine, either.

First of all, Joanne — reinforced by her discussion with Tony about sticking up for herself — had a battle royale with Serge over wages and almost got them all kicked out.

She confronted him just before the mid-morning rush, too, using the opportunity to fill the square wicker muffin-baskets with the day’s offerings of carrot-pineapple spelt and almond-cherry rice scones as her chance to say, “I figure that last week’s tallies were pretty hot, so it’s time the rest of us got some cash in our jeans.”

Even though Serge insisted that he couldn’t afford to pay them, they had helped him a lot. He was making payments on his mortgage and covering the costs of operating a restaurant, and it was due to their hard work.

“You say we’d have a job waiting for us when we got back, but why would we ever come back? You’re building yourself something nice here, and that’s great! But it isn’t like there’s anything here for us. The job isn’t even helping us get where we want to go.”

Joanne and Denise had given up on the idea of buying and fixin’ up an old school bus, but they still needed some sort of funding to travel to Woodstock. Joanne had been thinking about looking for another job. It had been troubling her for awhile because she enjoyed the camaraderie they shared, and she really liked working there.

“If you can’t afford to pay us at least some cash, shouldn’t a small part of this place be considered our property?”

From beside the wooden cutting-board, where he’d been weeping over onions, carrots and celery for the soup, Serge went ballistic.

“How is that fair? In what way do you have any stake in this place? You didn’t have to hustle and scratch a down payment together. You didn’t fix it up and turn it into a place where people would want to spend money. If it falls to pieces, you won’t be left carrying them. You — all you’ve done is cover the basic running of things. That’s only worth what I’ve been providing, no matter what you think.”

Rafe walked behind him, silently reached over and pried his fingers off the chef’s knife.

“Are you jivin’ me, Serge? ’Cause we can’t keep this up. We aren’t even covering our basics.” Joanne rubbed her temples, as though they were throbbing with a headache. “What do you want us to do? If this continues, we’re going to have to quit anyway. I thought you wanted people working for you who want you to succeed.”

“I can’t talk about this right now,” Serge spat as he stormed off. “I have to think about a solution, but I’m too damned angry to speak right now.”

Joanne was left standing there. When she looked back, she saw Rafe peering at her, even though she couldn’t see his eyes through the reflection in his glasses.

“He acts like I’m betraying him, letting him down, but doesn’t he understand? That’s exactly what I’m trying not to do.”

Rafe said nothing, but followed Serge upstairs into their bedroom. For the rest of the morning, as the others went about their tasks, the rise and fall of their voices could be heard.

“You really poked a stick in the bees’ nest, girl,” Denise said in a hushed voice during her break.

“Shut up, Denise.” Her friend’s cowed tone irritated the shit out of her. “Somebody had to say something. Were you gonna keep pretending everything was just peachy?”

It was unfair because, even though Denise knew how to hustle in the kitchen, after Serge walked out, she had to do all the prep and cooking by herself. It had been a marathon morning for her. Even so, Joanne’s chin was stuck at its most stubborn tilt.

In the end, Rafe managed to calm Serge down, though he admitted the guy’s pride was hurt and that was going to take some time to smooth out.

“In the meantime,” Rafe said, “I’ll comb through the accounts and see what we can do. I’m sure we can work something out.”

 

**Saturday, 1:59 pm**

 

It was the hottest part of the afternoon, when Tony and Hanael hiked back from the grocery store, their backpacks and arms filled with bags of produce for the next day’s menu, muscles sore and tendons stretched. Gus followed closely behind with a red children’s wagon full of boxes. It was another day without rain, baking hot. Their feet kicked up little puffs of dust, as they turned into the alleyway behind their street.

Even from the far end of the block, over the loudspeakers from the head shop, they could hear Paul Revere and the Raiders seething onto the street. _“They took our whole Indian nation, locked us on this reservation. Though I wear a shirt and tie, I’m a Red Man deep inside.”_

Gus groaned.

“What’s up, doc?” Hanael laughed. “I thought that tune was one of your faves.”

“Yeah, but bad enough hearing it every few hours on the radio, man, now they’re turning it into Muzak.”

“I can’t stand ‘In the Year 2525’ anymore ’cause of that thing.”

“I just wish they would blow up, know what I mean? Short out or something.” Gus carefully eased the wagon over a pothole. “Sometimes when you’re out watering the front yard, I’m tempted to grab the spray nozzle away from you and aim it at those speakers.”

As if by divine providence, the music suddenly cut out.

“Huh?” Three sets of eyes peered up the alleyway. Tony immediately recognized the repeating red flash. “It’s the cops. Weird. I didn’t hear any sirens, did you?”

“Finally,” Gus and Hanael said at the exact same time, looked at each other and started laughing. Gus told Tony, “They wouldn’t turn on the sirens for a raid.”

“C’mon!” Hanael started jogging up the lane. “Let’s see what’s goin’ down.”

When they got up to their end, a barricade was set up across the alley. The head shop was an anthill crawling with cops. One was stationed at the rail which blocked their path.

“That’s our place, officer.” Tony pointed. “Can you let us pass?”

“Not yet, boys. Just sit tight for awhile.”

Hanael craned his neck, trying to see around the corner of the building, whether they could cut through one of the other neighbours’ yards and get in through the front, but the view was blocked. Inspectors were hauling boxes of things out of the building.

On the back steps, a couple of men in trenchcoats were having an animated discussion with Chico. There was something different about the guy, more on the ball, less scattered.

“Hey, Chico, bro.” Hanael waved. “What’s shakin’? Can you help us out here, man?”

Chico waved. He finished up whatever he had been saying to the plainclothes men, and then walked over. He fished a badge out of his pocket to flash at the policeman and said, “It’s okay. I’ll take care of this.”

As they hauled their groceries through, Hanael asked him, “Drugs?”

“Can’t talk about it. We’re still investigating. Doesn’t look like this surprises you, ’ey _muchacho?”_

“The only thing that surprises me is you. Sure wasn’t expecting you to be a cop.”

“Nobody does, man. That’s why it works.” Chico let them out the other side. “Are you stickin’ around this evening?”

“Yeah, I suppose so.”

“Might stop by later.”

Hanael blinked, trying to imagine what he could want. “We’ll expect you then.”

The hubbub next door packed the coffeehouse with customers, who mostly wanted to stare out the windows or from the front yard at the fuss. They sold out of soy-brownies in the first five minutes, so Denise and Serge were whipping up more in the back. Even Rafe hopped downstairs to lend a hand while the boys were on grocery detail, since Joanne was barely able to keep up.

Hanael got the bright idea of taking out a tray with an iced tea service and selling fifty cent cups to people gawking at the barricades. He was doing a brisk business when the crowd suddenly fell quiet. The cops had decided to haul the owners in, and he was situated in the front row as the two men did their perp walk to the patrol car. They had just left the shop and were standing at the top of their stairs.

Not that Hanael was watching too closely. Instead, he was digging around his apron pocket for change for a sawbuck. He glanced up and straight into the eyes of the owner who had reminded him of a bull. A lightning stroke of recognition rushed between them, one that Hanael recognized as not from this lifetime.

Ox-man gave a roar, shouldered one of his captors off the side of the stairs, reeled around, hands still cuffed behind him, hunched over and, as the other policeman jackknifed over his body, hurled him off the steps on the other side. He then came charging straight for Hanael so fast, it was like being right in the path of an oncoming bull — with nowhere to run.

Hanael was completely surrounded by other people, trapped in the middle, and his only thought was that he didn’t want to break the cups. So he calmly sank down at the knees and set the tray on the ground just under the barricade. At that exact moment, Ox-man made a leap to, both, clear the board and knock him over. The timing was such that he sailed headlong over Hanael and straight into the people behind him.

Hanael slipped a leg under the barricade, shifted the weight from one foot to the other while bending over and slickly moving under the barrier, picked up the tray and, as the police recovered and ran over, nimbly stood up — unscathed and unbothered — on the head shop side of crowd control. He then scooted down the line, found a place where people had moved aside for a better view of the action, swung his legs back over the barricade there, and proceeded to sell iced tea to a fresh batch of customers as if nothing had happened.

Never once did it occur to him to wonder why the Ox-man targetted him.

Chico watched the whole thing from the doorway. He lit a cigarette, shook out the match and walked back inside.

The uniformed officers pulled off Ox-man’s shoes and hobbled him. He was hauled to his feet and dragged away with his cohort, who had lost his gum somewhere along the way. Policemen cleared the street to let the car pass, and it drove away, lights flashing, sirens blaring.

After that, the show got a lot less interesting, consisting mainly of boxes and crates of sealed evidence being hauled away. The crowd started to disperse, although the coffeeshop kept doing a brisk trade for the rest of the afternoon. People drifted in and out, some asking questions that no one could answer. Someone came in and ordered a dozen coffees to go ‘for next door.’

At around five-thirty, as they finished winding down for the day, Chico strolled in, took off his black leather jacket and slung it over the back of an old pressed-back chair beside a large round table that was being set for their dinner. Hanael brought an extra cup and utensils for him.

Denise gave a call from the kitchen, and as Rafe switched off the neon ‘open’ sign, slid the bamboo gate in front of their stairs shut, Gus and Joanne started hauling out plates, bowls and tureens.

The conversation rotated around the weather while they nibbled on thin breadsticks shaped like aspen wands, brushed with grapeseed oil and rolled in kosher salt, black sesame and furikake seasoning. It shifted to books and movies while they sipped on chilled cauliflower purée with tea-smoked mushrooms and chewy kernels of roasted corn. They talked about travelling and adventures while munching on salad greens and fresh herbs from the backyard. Tony made them laugh with a story about his mother’s yappy poodle chasing a young black bear up a tree during one of their camping trips as the dinner plates were carried out heaped with individually stacked lasagnas made from hand-rolled pasta. While Chico sliced a fork through one layer of honey-lime-and-ginger-marinated garbanzo beans and cubed seiten with roasted garlic and onions, they discovered he had some beachfront land in the California Baja and was sending his money there to build a retreat center. When he munched on the other layer of roasted yam and yellow pepper matchsticks tossed in spicy Thai red curry and coconut milk, they learned his sister had studied osteopathy in Copenhagen and that the retreat centre was mainly for her benefit, a place where people could come to relax and heal. It was only when they got to the dessert, a puff-pastry caramel apple stack with toasted almonds, bee pollen and honey gelato served with espresso shots and brandy from a Napa Valley vineyard owned by friends of Serge, that the subject turned to The Bong with the Luminous Nose.

“The investigation has been going on for a couple of years now,” he explained after they had discussed the weather and movies. “When I started this morning, something spooked the cousins who run the place. They went a little _loco,_ a little _espantado_ — mm, scared.”

“Far out,” Denise said. “They didn’t look related at all.”

“But that’s what they were, _mamacita:_ a family,” Chico confirmed. “Anyway, when I got there, it looked like they were ready for a speedy getaway. We had to move in even while the investigation was still incomplete. So, I was wondering if you guys had seen or heard anything unusual?”

Joanne and Denise filled him in on the early morning deliveries, with Denise adding her commentary. “They were so stupid about it. It’s not like by the Cannery where everybody goes home after quittin’ time and you don’t wanna stick around in any case ’cause chances are you’ll end up mugged or worse. People live here, right? When it goes quiet, it’s ’cause the neighbors are sleepin’. The last thing you wanna do if you’re tryin’ not to attract attention is make a big friggin’ racket at two o’clock in the mornin’.”

Chico started taking notes. “How often would you say these deliveries happened?”

“Three – four times a month,” Serge replied.

“When was the last one?”

They stared at each other.

“Often enough,” Rafe said, “that I guess we stopped noticing.”

Chico frowned, “You don’t know?”

“Last night,” Hanael spoke up. Everyone turned to him.

“You heard them?”

“Definitely,” Hanael said. “And saw them, too.”

Without any hesitation or further thought, he proceeded to describe what happened the night before when the truck drove up the alley, and Tony switched on the light in his camper.

“Just to be clear: because Tony — that’s you?” Chico stopped scrawling down notes to point at Tony. “Because Tony turned on the light, you think they realized they’d been spotted?”

“Beats me, but I guess so. ’Cause they sure packed up and took off in a hurry.”

“That explains why he went after you today.” Chico frowned, marking that down and putting a star next to it. “They probably think you’re the one who called the cops.”

“Hold on,” Joanne interrupted. “What were you doing in the dark in Tony’s camper?”

Hanael froze. Tony froze. The antique pendulum clock behind the counter tick, tick, ticked while everybody waited.

“Teaching me to meditate,” Tony finally blurted. “Buddhist style: candle, incense, flowers. Fell asleep though. It had been a long day.”

When Hanael’s eyebrows stretched up, Tony shrugged. Now that he had a moment to second-guess himself, his parents would probably take the news that he’d converted to Buddhism harder than that he liked to ‘lay down with other men’ — not that Joanne was likely to blab about it with them in either case.

“Holy smokes!” Denise confirmed her status as the person among them most likely to believe in Bigfoot. “You coulda set your camper on fire, lettin’ a candle burn like that.”

“Hanael is our resident Tibettan monk,” Serge mentioned for Chico’s benefit. He looked like the cat which had just caught a mouse through willing it to jump in his mouth.

“Just like that guy next door, eh _compadre?_ ” Chico nodded. “White hair, little pointy beard, old wha’s’is-name?”

“Colonel Sanders.”

“Naaaawww, you shittin’ me?”

“Seriously, that’s what he tells us to call him.”

“That’s crazy, man. If I was named that, it would be _el mucho grande problemmo!_ Because I’d always be hungry for fried chicken. Speakin’ of which, it’s time for me to mosey along.” Chico started putting away his pencil and paper. “Thank you for the meal. It beats Kentucky Fried any day. You guys’ll need to stick around town for awhile — might need you to testify.”

“Can’t you take our statements, instead?” Rafe asked.

Chico looked surprised. “’Spose so. Why?”

Rafe poked Serge.

“We’ll be out of the city for much of August.” Serge explained. Joanne’s back straightened. Her eyes grew wide. There was a buzz around the table at this news.

“What? All of you?”

“I’m temporarily closing the café, and we — all of us — will be going to the Woodstock Music Festival in New York.”

Denise and Joanne leapt out of their chairs with delighted squeals and jumped around, hugging each other.

“I’m afraid I can’t tell you how long it will take,” Serge continued. “Because we’ll be driving there and back.”

“Aw, man.” Chico looked like he was eating his heart out. “Wish I was goin’. About the only thing that is likely to happen this summer which concerns you is the arraignment. Your statements should be fine so long’s you’re all back for the trial.”

“We’ll be back.” Serge guaranteed. “You guys asked for equity in this place, so Rafe and I are gonna set up shares in lieu of formal wages. These will be shares in the business, not the property. Because the mortgage is contingent on me being the sole owner, that is a legal requirement. Also, it is the business which your work has helped, so by owning shares in it, you have a stake in its success. Still, better’n nothing.”

“Much better.” Joanne beamed, hugging him.

Serge looked surprised and touched. He said to Chico, “So now everyone has a good reason to come back.”

“That’s cool, man.” Chico grabbed his jacket. “If I didn’t like my job so much, I’d wanna come work here. Maybe once the place gets set up, I can hire you to come set up the kitchen in my sister’s place in Mexico. Anyway, here’s my desk number. Give me a call once you figure out when you wanna come in and give your statements. _Adiós, muchachos,_ God bless!”

As he left, Gus asked, “How’re we gettin’ there?”

“Hmm? Search me. We sure can’t afford to fix up a bus.” Serge looked over at Tony. “I was hoping we’d be able to enlist the use of you and your vehicle. It would be too small for all of us, but if we each brought tents and maybe rented another vehicle—”

“I’m fine with that,” Tony said. “But we may also have a van at our disposal. It’s sitting at a garage in Big Sur. I think the mechanic fixed it up. I’ll have to drive Hanael down and see.”

“Huh?” Hanael looked up. “You scored me another van?”

 

**Epilogue**

 

It was harder to negotiate the Old Cabrillo Highway with the sun full in Tony’s face, but Hanael pressed next to him on the bench seat more than made up for it. They frequently stopped to make use of the camper, and by frequently, that meant about once for every half hour of driving. Neither of them was in a tearing hurry to collect the van since that meant they would be spending the rest of their summer in separate vehicles.

“Maybe we can persuade Joanne to drive the van.” Tony said, as Hanael nuzzled his way past the blinding white underpant barrier for the third time that day. “I like the bucket seats in the van better, but at least with you sitting next to me on the bench seat, I get to feel you next to me. She doesn’t like smokin’ pot and she doesn’t like to drink much neither, so she’d be my choice for a safe driver. Of course, she’d hafta learn first.”

Hanael’s eyes narrowed. The fact that Tony could still talk presented him with a challenge. He started lapping at Tony’s cock, and soon swallowed it right back. Tony’s head fell back, his neck losing all strength to support it.

“Fuck me!” He yelled. “We definitely hafta get Joanne to drive the van.”

 

 

By the time they got to Monterey, Hanael mentioned his ass was starting to feel a bit swollen and ‘fuckered out.’ They got sidetracked by a caravan of travelling artists and musicians who had set up an impromptu festival on the dunes. Hanael was particularly fascinated by the batik and tie-dye tables. Tony wandered off to an area where he found a buncha guys shooting the breeze about customizing trucks and vans.

One guy had transformed his van into a completely self-contained housing unit for him and his girlfriend. They had already used it to criss-cross Alaska to Newfoundland, and then from Portland, Maine to Portland, Oregon. Now they were heading south and planning another cross-country trek along the old Route 66, then down the seaboard to Florida, back through Alabama, Louisiana, and Texas into Mexico and into South America. He hadn’t yet convinced the girlfriend that the drive through some of those Central American countries wasn’t crazy-assed dangerous on account of all the regimes and their armies, but that wasn’t a decision they had to make right away. Tony soaked in a lot of advice.

The afternoon had disappeared and Tony’s stomach was growling by the time Hanael wandered up and found him.

“Shall we rustle up some chow?” Tony was thinking about some of the fish shacks near the pier. Hanael’s face looked suspiciously smug, like he’d won the contest for coolest sunglasses. Tony was tempted to ask, but his stomach had other ideas.

“Sounds good.”

They waved goodbye to their new friends and found themselves a place which not only served up a fine fish-fry, but also featured vegetarian quiche. They parked on the 17-Mile Drive to Carmel, far enough away from the beach to get a good view of the Asilomar Surf without ending up in it. It was so hot along that stretch, for a change, that they slept completely naked with all the windows open, curled around each other and covered only with a sheet.

Tony found out why Hanael had looked so satisfied when he opened his drawer the next morning. There, instead of rows of dazzling white purity pants, he discovered every colour known to man. There were starburst pants, peace-sign pants, daisy pants, lotus pants, sutra quotation pants. One set had a bunch of little goldfish and turtle designs all over. Another had geometric patterns that looked like they were copied off beadwork. Some were batiked. Others tie-dyed. There were some that were just solid beautiful colour, like the amazing saffron yellow or royal purple underpants. They were the most artistic and beautiful things Tony had ever seen.

“It’s almost a shame to cover them up with jeans,” he said, deciding on the goldfish and turtle pair. “They make me wanna strut around and show them off, like some sort of cracked old geezer who’s lost his marbles.”

Hanael’s arms snaked up around his neck, and pulled him back onto the mattress. “My bum feels lonely. Give it some more lovin’, ’kay?”

“Gotcha.” Tony smiled, turning Hanael over, and slipping some pillows under his hips. “A guy could get addicted to this ‘Buddhist Meditation’ business.”

 

 


End file.
